Never Tear Us Apart
by johnsarmylady
Summary: It took a near death experience to give Sherlock the courage to admit what he had known almost from the start, and for John to reconsider the life he always imagined he had wanted. Rated M for later Adult themes, and be prepared for possible angst...
1. And So It Begins

**My first attempt at multi-chapter slash, as encouraged by the brilliant MapleleafCameo – so if you want to know how it should be written go…go NOW and read her wonderous stories – but please come back….  
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, John et al – that privilege belongs to ACD, Moffat and Gatiss **

"John?"

The doctor looked up from the fire to see Sherlock standing over him, looking concerned.

"John are you alright?"

"Think so."

Sherlock crouched in front of John's chair, one hand negligently resting on the arm, the other resting on his friend's forearm, his fingers gently wrapped around that wool covered limb.

"You were kidnapped, held hostage, and strapped into enough semtex to take out a whole street."

"Yes….yes that's true, but I'm still here aren't I?" John smiled.

Sherlock frowned slightly as another thought occurred to him.

"Why?"

The smile faded, to be replaced by hurt puzzlement. Realising his mistake Sherlock reached out on impulse, moving his hand from chair to John's cheek. John froze. Those long, warm fingers stayed resting against his cheek.

"I don't understand." His voice shook. "Don't you….are you asking me to leave?" Confusion was the emotion uppermost in the doctor's mind as he stared back at his flatmate. Sherlock's voice seemed to be saying one thing while his body, his hand was saying something else.

"No John," the normally rich baritone voice was barely a whisper. "I'm wondering why you would willingly stay with me" He swallowed, breaking eye contact momentarily to let his gaze wander over the man sitting in front of him, a fine tremor running through his body as he looked back into those clear blue eyes. "You survived a war, only to almost die in a municipal swimming pool."

The pair moved almost unconsciously towards each other. Sherlock's hand was still cupping John's cheek; John leant forward until his forehead rested against Sherlock's shoulder.

"Far too pedestrian, John" Sherlock said softly "No way for a war hero to die!"

Sherlock's hand moved, ever so slowly, as if his mind was afraid to acknowledge what his heart was asking of him. Stroking through the soft blond hair, there was a subtle shift in his balance as his knees sunk to the floor, allowing him to pull John's head closer into the shelter of his body, and as he did so he was barely breathing. Kneeling in front of John's chair Sherlock waited.

oOo

John's mind had gone into free fall. It had been a hell of a night, recovering the Bruce Partington plans, unmasking Andrew West's killer (his future brother-in-law), and he'd been looking forward to a night in front of the telly with Sarah. Then it all went to shit. He barely noticed the sharp sting of a hypodermic needle, but he'd never forget the sensation of waking with the weight of the explosives strapped to his body, the sound of Moriarty's voice in his ear, and the look of shock – betrayal? – on Sherlock's face.

The tremors started when the Semtex jacket had been ripped off him and flung across the floor, the sudden adrenalin shutdown had left his legs weak and he sunk to a crouch, leaning against a cubicle, the juddering through his muscles controlled by iron will. Moriarty had left, but when he came back, changed his mind and brought his snipers back into play, John had been convinced they would die. The look he and his friend had shared was one of resignation and determination – yes, they may die here, but Moriarty would die too, and that, as Sherlock had once said, would be a result. There was something else in that look, but John couldn't quite catch what it was. The relief when he changed his mind was enormous, and all John wanted to do was go home. Home; to the flat with its boarded up windows, and gale force draughts. Home, to the fire in the hearth, and his room, and his bed. He wanted a return to normality, but this wasn't it. Something had changed.

oOo

Sherlock could feel his heart thudding in his chest. John was shaking. Was it memories, or the fact that he was holding him close? He had wanted to hold his doctor like this almost from the first, when his new flatmate had taken his gun and killed that murderous cabbie, but he hadn't known how to make the first move. He'd watched with jealous eyes as John had pursued Sarah. Part of him feared he would drive him away with his outrageous antics designed to chase away boredom, he understood that his lack of feeling, of sentiment, had disappointed the man now shaking in his arms. He dared not move lest he break the spell.

At first Sherlock wasn't sure that he'd actually spoken, but into the silence John's voice came again. It sounded weak and distant.

"If you want me to go…." There was a break in his voice and he swallowed hard. He couldn't help himself; the shakes had taken hold as soon as Sherlock had pulled him into the safe haven of his shoulder.

Sherlock tightened his grip on his army doctor.

"Please don't leave me." There was desperation in his voice, and any other time he would have been horrified at the show of weakness, but he didn't want John to leave, and he didn't know how else to convince him that he had to stay.

John placed his hand on Sherlock's chest with the intention of pushing him away, but as he made contact he could feel the wild thudding of his friend's heart beneath his hand. Instead of pushing he let his hand rest there, relishing the erratic life he could feel there. He lifted his head, causing Sherlock's hand to slip away until it lay, loose and unresponsive back on the arm of the chair. Closing his eyes he took a deep breath, preparing himself for…for what? Rejection? Where the hell had that thought come from?

Battening down the tremors, he opened his eyes and let his gaze wander upwards over his flatmate's face. As anticipated his expression was carefully neutral, but his lower lip looked slightly reddened, as if bitten. There was a hint of a flush along the sharply etched cheekbones that John dismissed as being caused by their proximity to the fire. He didn't want to look further. He was confused.

"John" It wasn't a whisper, it was a sigh.

It drew John's eyes up to meet Sherlock's, and what he saw there took the breath from his lungs and almost stopped his heart. There was no condemnation, no rejection. There was hardly anything left of the ever changing silver-grey irises. Sherlock's pupils were blown wide, so wide that John felt he was drowning in the inky black depths, falling so deep that neither man was sure who made the first move, only that as their lips met the world could have exploded around them, and they wouldn't even have noticed.


	2. Don't Ask Me What You Know Is True

**Thank you for your encouraging reviews – hope you like this second instalment, and if you do then please…..review! Thank you to my wonderful encouraging friends…yes, you know who you are!  
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, John et al – that privilege belongs to ACD, Moffat and Gatiss **

They parted, staring at each other.

John's hand, that had seconds ago been clutching the curls at the back of his head, skimmed softly across his shoulder and down his arm, finally breaking contact as he withdrew, moving back in his chair. He swallowed hard.

"Christ, Sherlock."

"Was it wrong?" confusion clouded the young man's face. "Didn't you enjoy…."

"Whoa! Wait Sherlock, slow down!" John's nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, knowing he needed to sort his own head out before he could even consider sorting his flatmate. He ran a hand over his face.

Sherlock sat back on his heels and watched his flatmate, trying to read from his body language what his next move should be. He was surprised when John pushed himself out of his chair, moving deftly around him and heading for the stairs.

"I need to sleep, Sherlock, I'll see you in the morning."

By the time he reached his bedroom John was more than a little confused. He had never kissed another man before, and yet here he was, having just kissed his sociopath flatmate!

Kicking off his shoes he threw himself backwards onto his bed, one arm draped over his eyes, his other hand clenched tightly in his duvet. Thoughts chased each other at dizzying speeds around his head, faster and faster until each one became a physical ache building up around his temples. What had just happened, downstairs, between him and Sherlock? And more importantly, why did his thoughts keep turning back to the way Sherlock's heart had been racing under his palm, to the way his pupils had dilated, to the look on his face just before….

oOo

Sherlock watched as John disappeared from view, then moved from the floor to the couch. Almost in slow motion he lay down, stretching his lanky frame, his head resting on the cushioned arm, his fingers steepled under his chin.

He wasn't sure at this point what worried him more – that John had almost run from the room after their kiss, or that Moriarty had seen what he had not himself acknowledged, that ordinary, seemingly unremarkable, ex-army doctor John Watson was more precious to him than his own life.

Thoughts crowded into his head. He could no longer deny that John was a necessary part of his life, and yet Moriarty had somehow seen this, and now John could find himself targeted. Sherlock turned this thought over in his head for a while. Regardless of how John felt, and whether or not he returned Sherlocks feelings, Moriarty would, at some time, come gunning for him. And this created another set of problems – should Sherlock send him away for his own safety (would he go?), or say nothing about the potential danger and persuade the doctor to stay? His heart told him the former was the correct course of action, but it wanted, oh so badly, to follow the latter!

At around the time he realised that the only course of action would be to first ascertain how John actually felt about him, he heard the sound of footsteps slowly making their way downstairs.

"You been there all night?" John's voice was still thick with sleep. Sherlock's eyes moved over him, noting that he still wore yesterday's clothes, making that connection that his flatmate obviously hadn't removed them before going to bed, if indeed he had gone to bed. "Tea?"

"Coffee"

"Okay" switching the kettle on John moved to stand in the doorway. "You okay?"

"Of course I'm okay John, why shouldn't I be?"

"I…er…no, er, no reason…" he turned away, and for a moment the only sounds to be heard were the clink and rattle of tea and coffee being made, the clunk of the toaster and the crisp, crackling, scraping sound of the knife spreading butter on the newly toasted bread.

Placing a mug of coffee and plate of toast on the coffee table for Sherlock, John retreated to his own chair and busied himself eating his breakfast. He was acutely aware of the younger man's pale gaze watching his every move.

Sherlock reached blindly for his coffee, sipping the hot sweet liquid, his mind racing. Once, twice, he opened his mouth to ask John about that kiss, but each time his voice refused to move past the lump in his throat.

"What do you think he'll do next? Moriarty, I mean," John mused, staring into his half empty mug, "what was that call all about?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Couldn't say – better offer? A different game?"

John chuckled. "Can you believe his sodding ring tone? Staying Alive?"

"Hmm," a ghost of a smile graced his lips, "twisted sense of humour?"

Still laughing softly John made the mistake of looking across at his flatmate, their eyes met, John's laughter died, and for a long moment time stood still.

The sound of footsteps running up the stairs broke the spell, and Sherlock leapt to his feet, moving swiftly to answer the door.

"What do you want, Lestrade?"

"Good morning to you too, Sherlock" Greg responded, walking past him into the living room, and sitting on the couch. "John"

"Greg."

"Know anything about an anonymous call to the Yard last night? Something about a large amount of semtex at a swimming pool?"

John turned wide innocent eyes on the Detective Inspector.

"Right then," Lestrade sat back on the couch and returned the stare, reaching for a slice of Sherlock's toast and biting hungrily into it. "Can I assume it was that same bloody madman? And what happened to the poor bastard that was wearing the explosive overcoat?"

"You're looking at him!" Sherlock walked across and sat in his armchair.

"You?" Greg's expression grew alarmed.

"John"

Both men turned to look at the blond doctor, who blushed slightly and lowered his gaze.

"You alright mate?" concern was obvious in the older man's voice. John just nodded.

"Of course he's alright, Lestrade, he's a soldier!"

"Was a soldier, Sherlock" John corrected gently. "He drugged and kidnapped me Greg, just so he could prove how clever he is." Swigging down the rest of his tea he continued, "He did it to get Sherlock's attention, then buggered off – and before you ask no, we couldn't follow until we were sure his snipers had withdrawn, and by then of course, he was well away."

"Shit!"

"Hmm" Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. "I believe we've not heard the last of Moriarty…."

"Who?" Greg puzzled over the half recognised name.

"You recall, Lestrade, Miss Wenceslas had dealings with him."

"The painting…."

"Connie Prince, Ian Monkford and Janus Cars, the Carl Powers murder….."

"Yeah, that pool…"

"Was where he died" John said, casting a meaningful glance at Sherlock, who had the good grace to look a little uncomfortable.

Oblivious, Lestrade grabbed the second slice of toast from Sherlock's plate as he got to his feet.

"I need you two to come over to my office to write up your statements."

"Later yes, Lestrade, however just now…"

"Yeah, I hear you Sherlock. Just don't make me send a car for you!"

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and returned to his thinking pose.

John gave a brief smile. "We'll be there."

Greg looked from one man to the other, gave a slight nod and left.

The door closed behind their visitor, leaving an atmosphere hanging heavily over the flat. Unable to bear the silence John got up and gathered up the plates and mugs, heading out to the kitchen.

"Seeing as how Greg helped himself to your breakfast, so you want some more?"

"No."

John half turned, looking back over his shoulder.

"You need to eat, Sherlock, and it's not as if you're on a case, or mid-way through an experiment…."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, John, I'm studying the after effects of what happened to us last night."

John stared.

"The pool?"

"No John," Sherlock stood and slowly glided across the room to stand in front of his friend. Uncomfortable, John looked down, a small frown creasing his brow.

"John, look at me."

"Sherlock, please….."

"Please? Please what, John? What is it you want from me?"

"N…nothing…" John stammered, still staring at the floor. "I don't want…."

"Don't lie to me, John," Sherlock's breath ghosted across John's ear as he leaned closer to whisper "and above all, don't lie to yourself."

That brought the other man's head back up as if he'd been shot through with a thousand volts of electricity.

"If Lestrade hadn't come bursting in…."

The tension was broken as John let out a short, mirthless laugh.

"He hardly burst in Sherlock, seeing as how you opened the door to him!" Turning away he completed the short walk to the sink, where he deposited the dirty crockery.

"Are you saying nothing would have happened? That last night was wrong?"

"No, no I'm not saying that at all," memories of the way Sherlock's eyes had looked as they sat face to face the night before softened John's voice, and he turned to lean back against the sink. "I'm saying…. I dunno, I'm not sure what I'm saying," he shrugged, a look of hopeless longing in his clear blue eyes. "I don't know what to think, or what I feel! I thought…..God, how many times have we denied we're a couple…..?"

"I never have, John." There was a sadness in Sherlock's voice that tugged at the other man's heart. "I just never stopped you from saying it, because I thought you really believed it, but after last night…"

"Sherlock…."

"No John. Don't say anything else. You need time to think this over, I understand that."

oOo

The tension of what had been left unsaid was almost tangible as the two men sat in Greg's office writing out their accounts of the previous night's escapade. Sherlock finished first, throwing his hand written statement onto the desk with a flourish and dashing out of the office in a swirl of heavy woollen trench coat, declaring that he wanted to speak to the officers responsible for dealing with the aftermath of the incident, to see if there was anything of interest to be learned.

Greg sat and watched as John finished writing, and as the doctor handed his statement over he looked him over critically.

"Is everything alright John?"

"Sorry?"

"I mean, you look… well… a little out of sorts." Greg mentally kicked himself for sounding like one of his elderly maiden aunts. Out of sorts? The poor sod looked positively hag-ridden, as if something dreadful was playing on his mind. He had felt an echo of it at 221B that morning, but it was such an insubstantial feeling that he had felt unable to say anything. Now he looked at John, who looked back at him with a tired smile.

"After effect from last night I suppose," he said, knowing that Greg would assume he meant what had happened at the pool.

"Well that was worse than useless!" Sherlock burst back through the door, scowling. "No fingerprints, no DNA traces, nothing of any use!"

"Yeah, well that was only to be expected really." John replied, "Moriarty is no amateur."

Sherlock grunted. Greg bit down on the anger he felt building up – the man may be a genius but he was totally without empathy.

"For Christ's sake get him home." He jerked a thumb in John's direction as he spoke "The poor bastard looks completely done in!"

"I'm fine"

"No, he's right, John, come on!" and without a backward glance the young man left the room. With a resigned shrug his blogger slowly followed.

oOo

Sherlock could barely contain himself. He fidgeted all the way back to Baker Street, and no sooner had the door closed behind them he turned to John, backing him up until the wall was behind him and there was nowhere left to go.

"We need to talk, John, we have to discuss what happened last night."

"What do you want me to say? It was reaction, Sherlock, just a physical reaction to the danger." Even to his own ears John knew he didn't sound convincing.

"Was it?" Sherlock took hold of John's hand and pressed it against his chest. John swallowed convulsively – there was no denying that the younger man's heart rate was significantly higher that it should be. Sherlock leaned in closer, an almost predatory look on his handsome face. "Then how do you explain this?"


	3. I Love Your Precious Heart

**Sorry, this has taken an age to write! Please enjoy – and if you enjoy….please review. You'll make me very happy! :D  
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, John et al – or the bits of series dialogue that I have messed with! **

Sherlock left John standing against the wall, and stalked away into his bedroom. Slamming the door shut he leaned against it, sliding down until he sat on the floor, his legs drawn up to his chest, his head resting on his knees.

He wanted to understand what was happening between them, but what he read in John's eyes and John's body were so contradictory – the blown pupils told him all he needed to know about the desire he was sure John felt, but with the exception of that one kiss, that wonderful kiss when the doctor had been relaxed against him and his lips soft and pliant, John's body was tense, on the verge of fight-or-flight whenever the younger man got too close. Sherlock cursed his lack of knowledge.

oOo

John leaned back against the wall and drew in a shuddering breath. His left hand trembled slightly; a remembrance of the feel of Sherlock's thudding heartbeat, of the warmth of his body through his shirt.

Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

"Jesus!" he said on an exhalation.

He couldn't just stand there forever, so he pushed himself upright, the soldier standing to attention, and opened the front door. He had barely taken a step through when Sherlock shot out of his room.

"Where are you going?"

"Uh…just down to see Mrs Hudson. I wanted to know when the windows are going to be fixed."

"Oh."

"It's alright, Sherlock." He gave a small smile. The other man just stared. "Right, okay then, back in a minute." John turned and ran lightly down the stairs.

He returned, whistling through his teeth less than five minutes later, to find Sherlock at his desk hunched over….

"My laptop again I see."

"Problem?" he didn't even look up, just continued to scroll through the pages.

"Even if there was you'd refuse to see it." John walked across to stand beside him. "You may want to move from there, the glaziers will be here within the hour apparently."

Grey eyes looked up, assessing. The soldier stood absolutely still, enduring the examination. Abruptly Sherlock shut the computer down and leapt to his feet, reaching for his coat.

"Molly has a body for me to work on at Bart's."

"You want me to come along?"

Frenetic movement stilled.

"No." There, he had said it! He needed to put space between them, so why did he feel so strange, so…empty? Damn it, he needed data!

"Right. Fine." John picked up his laptop, turned and walked over to his chair. "I'll just write up…."

"You do that." Without a backward glance Sherlock was gone.

oOo

Sherlock spent much of his time at Bart's slicing various bits of human anatomy and coating, dipping or pouring various chemical over them, watching for reaction, noting it all on his iPhone.

Molly had hovered in the background for a while, but soon got the message when he ignored her – he didn't want to talk, didn't want to think about anything other than the pieces of flesh and internal organs in the petri dishes.

His phone buzzed and he snatched it up, opening the message.

'Are you coming home tonight? – JW'

He frowned, and looked at the time. It was almost midnight, and he had been here almost eight hours! Glancing around he realised that Molly had gone, the light turned off in her office and the door firmly shut. The coffee in the mug at his elbow was ice cold – how long ago had she put it there? Looking again at his phone he rattled off a quick message to his flatmate.

'Don't wait up – SH'

There was no sign of Sherlock when John descended the stairs the next morning, but he knew he had returned at some point during the night, knew it by the bag of thumbs that had materialised in the fridge right next to the butter. Cautiously picking up the still frozen digits he stowed them in the box at the bottom of the fridge usually reserved for storing healthier stuff such as salads – like that'll ever happen in this flat, he thought to himself as he reached for the milk.

As he moved into the living room he looked towards Sherlock's room, but the door was firmly shut. He re-read his blog while he sipped at his tea, and satisfied, posted it.

"Seeing Sarah today?"

John's mug, now fortunately empty, bounced off his leg and hit the floor with a thud.

"Will you stop creeping up on me like that?" John yelled, standing up and turning to face his flatmate.

Sherlock tilted his head to one side, his eyes swiftly reading from the soldier's stance the answer to his question.

"She no longer wants to see you."

John's shoulders slumped.

"Well would you, in her place? Our first date resulted in her being kidnapped, tied up and almost killed. The last time I saw her, I left rather precipitously when I realised half of Baker Street was covered in rubble!" He took a deep, calming breath. "I was supposed to spend the evening with her, and instead I end up strapped into a semtex jacket, and I don't even have the decency to tell her sorry, I can't make it." His voice sounded on the verge of hysterical laughter.

Sherlock frowned, his mind sorting through what had been said, trying to hear what hadn't been, but just one sentence clung to him, wrapped around his mind, and an answer forced its way out.

"Yes. Yes I would!"

John frowned. "You would what?"

"Nothing!" Sherlock threw himself onto the couch. "You're probably better off without her!"

"Sherlock!"

An elegant shoulder shrugged, and the two men stared at each other. The doorbell rang, interrupting them, cutting through the atmosphere.

The consulting detective lifted his head to listen – Mrs Hudson opening the door; talking quietly to whoever was there; footsteps on the stairs. He looked across at John who nodded, and went to open the door to three of the least likely clients ever to cross their threshold.

oOo

Almost a week later Sherlock and John fell, helplessly laughing, through the door of 221B.

"I lied when I said chasing that taxi was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever done!" John exclaimed, gasping for breath between giggles, and struggling to walk up the stairs. "Pretending to be a Ninja in Soho trumps that by miles!"

Sherlock reached up without thinking and placed his hand on the small of John's back, to urge him up the stairs a little faster. Heat travelled instantly down his arm, and was that hesitation he felt in John's step? If it was it had gone in a nanosecond, and the man ahead of him continued to move swiftly upwards.

Into the flat they stumbled, and John grinned at Sherlock as the younger man flopped onto the couch.

"Where the fuck did he get that spandex super-hero outfit?" The giggles got the better of him again as he flung his black ski mask onto the coffee table.

"Just be grateful John, that he didn't ask us to wear similar costumes."

They both stilled for a moment, staring at each other in horror, then exploded once more.

Laughing hard, John collapsed, almost landing in his flatmate's lap, his hand brushing against the other's thigh. Sherlock felt the jolt through his body, and steeled himself for another withdrawal, but either John hadn't realised or he chose to ignore it, for his hand stayed there, warm and comforting.

The next morning Sherlock was still pondering the effect of John's touch when he returned from Scotland Yard, where he had been summoned by Greg Lestrade to explain what had happened in Soho the previous evening.

John was sitting in his chair; his two fingered typing slowly putting flesh on the bones of their latest escapade. A thought tip-toed through the detective's mind, and the corners of his beautifully formed lips turned up slightly before the smile was banished, tossed to one side along with his long coat as he leaned over the back of John's chair.

"The Geek Interpreter? What's that?"

"That's the title."

"What's it need a title for?"

John smiled. Sherlock slowly moved away, and as he did he exhaled, his breath ghosting across John's neck.

The smile disappeared as fast as it had arrived, and the doctor's eyes almost fell out of his head. Did Sherlock just do what he thought he had done? His head whipped round but his flatmate was busy sending a text message.

Looking back at his laptop he realised his pulse was racing – and he missed the smug expression on Sherlock's face.

oOo

The body lay on the mortuary slab between them. Greg looked on as both men examined her, Sherlock snapping out his pocket magnifier.

"Do people actually read your blog?"

John's eyes remained on the body. "Where d'you think our clients come from?"

"I have a website." Grey eyes looked up, assessing the man standing across the table.

"In which you enumerate 240 different types of tobacco ash – no-one's reading your website." There was no conceit in the way he spoke, just facts, but from his vantage point Lestrade saw the stiffening of Sherlock's spine, and as the doctor started to verbalise the outward symptoms on the body the Consulting detective swept out of the room.

He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but Greg would have sworn this was something more than his usual hissy fit. Fortunately it didn't hamper his ability to solve this particular crime, if anything it was solved faster.

Later that afternoon, as John sat at the desk typing up his notes, Sherlock floated into the living room hungrily biting into a slice of toast and standing close enough to his blogger for that man to feel the heat from his body through his thin robe. Fingers ceased their movement over the keyboard.

"The Speckled Blonde?" sneering at this latest title he moved away, and John found himself wishing for that warmth back.

oOo

"Don't mention the unsolved ones!"

John was putting the finishing touches of the unsolved case of the body in the car boot.

"People want to know you're human!"

"Why?"

"Cause they're interested." John pointed proudly to the hit counter on the screen, indicating the 1895 hits he'd had in the last eight hours, and despite the smile on his face he felt strangely unhappy that Sherlock dismissed offhand his efforts.

Yet the work still came in, and their next case found them racing by taxi to a body in a small theatre in Edgware.

"Oh God, Lestrade, even Anderson could have solved this!"

"Sherlock."

"Well" the voice dripped scorn. "Look John," he pointed at the dancer's bare midriff. "D'you see it?"

John knelt down for a closer look. A tap on his shoulder caused him to raise his head, to find that Sherlock was offering him his magnifier. A little surprised he accepted it, their fingers brushed as it was handed over. The hitch in his breathing was so slight that it went unnoticed by all but the man standing next to him.

"Oh yeah," he said, his voice a little unsteady, "Looks like her jewellery's been coated in poison."

Greg heard the tremor this time and looked at the doctor, concerned.

"You alright, John?"

John smiled as he stood up. "Yeah, fine."

Still frowning slightly the officer looked at Sherlock

"I would check out the company's second dancer – I think you'll find she's just removed the competition for lead dancer. Come on John!"

Side by side they walked away, leaving Sally Donovan directing officers to search the dressing rooms.

"So what's this one – Belly Button Murders?"

"The Navel Treatment?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"There's a lot of press outside," Lestrade led them out along an ill lit corridor, pointing out that they were now an internet phenomenon. Sherlock ducked into a prop room and grabbed a couple of hats, one he thrust at John while pulling the other onto his head and turning up his collar. Despite his cold and disdainful expression he was quite flattered by the attention, _'but it wouldn't do to tell_ _John though'_ he thought as they pushed through the photographers.

The photographs, when the newspapers were delivered next day, were all over the front page. John chuckled at the pout on Sherlock's face, and for one strange and overwhelming moment he wanted to reach out and ruffle those soft, thick, raven curls. The thought made him blush.

oOo

They travelled home from Buckingham Palace, laughing together over a stolen ashtray. The day had started strangely, a driver who found a body, a man who was hit on the head by a disappearing blunt instrument, and then the helicopter ride to the heart of London.

John had managed not to show his surprise when he was shown into the waiting room where his mad flatmate was sitting, wrapped in a sheet, his clothes stacked neatly on the table in front of him. He sat down. He glanced across at the folds of the sheet.

"Are you wearing any pants?"

"No."

That was when the giggling started. They giggled at Mycroft, and now they were on their way home, still giggling like children. Sherlock was confident they would solve the problem of the dominatrix and the Royal photographs quickly.

A short while (and a brief rummage through Sherlock's wardrobes) later, Sherlock and John were faced off in a mews a couple of streets from the woman's house, Sherlock having goaded John he was now on the receiving end of his right hook. As he recovered and stood up John launched at him again, knocking him back to the ground….and all Sherlock could think of was the doctor's warm, solid body against his.

That thought stayed with him when he found himself face to face with the extremely underdressed Irene Adler, but he soon found it near impossible to think of anything except the fact that he couldn't read her, couldn't deduce anything about her, and he was worried.

He was right to be, because it wasn't long before the whole situation had become skewed, a trio of CIA agents had taken control of the room and suddenly Sherlock was facing the unthinkable – open the safe or John would die!

As Neilson counted to three Sherlock frantically tried to protest his ignorance of the code to Miss Adler's safe, but to no avail. In panic he looked at the woman, now wrapped in his greatcoat, and realised the answer had been in front of him all the time.

"No wait!" he turned to the keypad, praying he hadn't misunderstood the flick of her eyes, and pushed the buttons, 32 24 34, there was the click of a lock releasing, Neilson ordered him to open it. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and his eyes moved surreptitiously back to where she knelt down in front of a gun toting agent. She ducked her head.

"Vatican Cameos!"

John threw himself forward onto the floor as Sherlock ducked, opening the door wide and springing the trap. A gun fired. Sherlock swung upwards and neutralised Neilson, Irene slammed her elbow into crotch of the agent guarding her, while John pulled himself out from under the now dead agent who seconds ago was preparing to blow his head off.

As almost an afterthought, Sherlock intimated that Irene should do something about the agent currently rolling on the floor clutching himself. Using the butt end of the man's own gun she swiped him around the head, knocking him cold!

For John, the next five minutes became somewhat blurred. Sherlock stood outside the house and fired off half a dozen shots – quicker than calling the police! Then at Sherlock's request he searched for the Americans' point of entry, and found at the same time Kate, Miss Adler's PA, unconscious on the floor. His reassurances were dismissed as the dominatrix sent him to check the back door, and by the time he returned she had drugged and whipped his flatmate, retrieved her phone and was on the point of leaving. John hardly registered what was said before she dropped backwards out of the window – his mind was racing around the myriad of possibilities concerning the long-term effect of the unknown drug.

Getting Sherlock home with his dignity intact had been impossible. Greg and Sally had almost wet themselves laughing, and as insurance Greg had managed to take some cracking video footage that he promised to use to keep the consulting detective in check!

Deciding he was more comfortable not trying to undress his flatmate, John heaved Sherlock onto the bed, settling him into the recovery position and throwing a sheet over him. He was just considering whether or not to order in a take away when he heard Sherlock's voice, slurred but frantic, calling his name.

"Where is she?" Sherlock demanded, stumbling around his room.

"Who?"

"The woman."

"What woman?

"That woman…._the_ woman"

"She's not here, she was never here." He watched as his flatmate threw himself gracelessly to the floor, trying to look under the bed "No, no, no. Back to bed, you'll be fine in the morning, just sleep."

"Of course I'll be fine, I am fine. I'm absolutely fine"

"Yes, you're great. Now I'll be next door if you need me."

"Why would I need you?"

"No reason at all." John closed the door as he left the room.

oOo

Despite Mycroft's disappointment at not acquiring the photographs, and the mysterious new text alert on Sherlock's phone, neither man seemed to have suffered any ill effects of their less than successful adventure.

Christmas was approaching. Sherlock threw himself into his experiments and refused to discuss Irene Adler. John had found himself a new girlfriend. All appeared to be settling back into normality in 221B, until they decided to host a Christmas get-together for their friends.

As insults went, the way Sherlock comprehensively tore Molly apart was quite spectacular – as was his apology. That he kissed her cheek was a totally unexpected move, but that his phone should choose that moment to let loose with its new and intriguing (and incredibly sexy) message tone almost caused the poor woman to die of embarrassment!

"Oh! That wasn't me!" she exclaimed, blushing as red as her scarlet lipstick.

"No, it was me."

Greg's eyes widened comically. "Really?"

"My phone." Sherlock was already reading the text. Slowly he moved to the mantelpiece and picked up a small gift, wrapped in red foil and tied with black cord. His mind elsewhere, he excused himself and walked to his bedroom.

John frowned. If only he had realised how much trouble that one little gaily wrapped package would cause.

oOo

Christmas shattered into a thousand pieces with the discovery that Miss Adler was 'dead'. Sherlock was withdrawn, playing sad music – it drove John out for air. He wasn't sure where he was headed, certainly not to see his girlfriend because she had dumped him when he chose to stay with Sherlock over visiting her friends on the night of the party.

He had barely stepped outside the door when he was kidnapped – yet again – but this time it wasn't Mycroft. Waiting, in the cold, damp wreckage of Battersea Power Station, stood Irene Adler!

John was stunned, and more so when she asked him for help.

"Tell him you're alive!" He was convinced Sherlock was pining for this beautiful and intelligent woman.

She refused, asking instead for help. As they argued John increasingly lost his temper.

"Tell him."

"I can't…."

"Fine. I'll tell him, and I still won't help you!" John stormed away.

"What do I say?"

"What do you normally say?" John shouted, spinning around and stalking back towards her. "You've texted him a lot!"

"Just the usual stuff." She read some of her texts out loud " 'Good morning, I like your funny hat' 'I'm sad tonight, let's have dinner'…."

As she read on, text after text John's heart sank. She had been flirting _– flirting! _– with Sherlock, and John realised he really didn't like that idea, he didn't like it one little bit.

"You flirted with Sherlock Holmes?"

"At him – he never answered."

"He always answers; he's Mr Punch-Line! He'd outlive God trying to get the last line!"

"Does that make me special?"

Those words, that thought, hurt John incredibly, although he wasn't sure he was able to admit it, even to himself. He watched as she typed out another text.

"I'm not dead, let's have dinner – there." She pressed send. Seconds later they both heard the sound of Sherlock's text alert.

John moved as if to find his friend, but the woman held her hand up.

"I don't think so – do you?"

oOo

This, and an attack that same day on Mrs Hudson, sent their New Year the same way as Christmas, though on the surface Sherlock was unchanged by the events of the holiday season. But John knew better. How he knew, he wasn't entirely sure he could say, but he was worried.

Sherlock had always had days when he wouldn't speak, but John had felt these had become less in number, until The Woman. Violin playing in the early hours of the morning had also reduced to times when a particularly troublesome case needed teasing out, yet now John found he was being woken night after night to the same piece of music, that sad music that Sherlock himself had composed when he thought The Woman was dead. John tended to think of Irene Adler in that way now – The Woman – she made him angry, even when, eventually, Sherlock cracked the code locking her mobile and handed the information to his brother, she still had the power to get under the younger man's skin.

After two solid weeks of being woken at three am, John dragged himself out of bed and pattered, barefoot, down to the living room. Sherlock stood in the window, his slim graceful frame silhouetted by the streetlights that shone through.

"Sherlock…."

"John?" The music stopped, but he continued to stare blindly out of the window.

"Sherlock, you need to sleep, hell, I need to sleep! What's wrong?" running a hand through his hair he looked around the room, then slumped down onto the couch. "You want to talk about it?"

Sherlock frowned, turning now to look down at the other man. John continued, undaunted, to look steadily up at him.

"Why should I have anything…"

"The music, Sherlock, night after bloody night, that same tune!" John's eyes followed his flatmate as he put down his instrument and moved to sit at the other end of the couch, his pale hand unconsciously rubbing his chest.

"It hurts." It was a simple statement, whispered, almost too low to be heard.

John waited.

"Why does it hurt, John?" shining, confused eyes looked across at the doctor.

"Is it….is it _her_?"

The dark curly head shook.

"Then what?"

"Not what, John, _who_…" Sherlock slid closer. "Wanting someone who doesn't want you, it hurts. Mycroft was right…."

"Wait – Sherlock – no, wait a minute! Mycroft was right about what?"

"That caring is not an advantage." He edged closer still. "I don't know what to do."

Suddenly it all became clear in John's mind, exactly what Sherlock was talking about. He knew his next words might change things for both of them, but he had never been one to turn away, to hide from a truth no matter how inconvenient.

His eyes never left his flatmate's face, and his voice was soft as he asked "What is it you want to do?"

Grey eyes scanned his face and body rapidly, then, as if making up his mind, Sherlock whispered "This!" as he leaned forward and captured John's lips.

**A/N: For Ninja references – read Johns Blog!**


	4. Two Worlds Colliding

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, John et al**

It was a gentle, almost tentative kiss, and as he moved away Sherlock scanned John's face once more.

"Are you going to run away this time?" he asked quietly

"If I do, will you start play that bloody tune again?" John replied, hoping a little humour would dissipate the tension in the air.

They sat in silence for a while, then

"They all got it wrong you know. Moriarty called me 'The Virgin', even Mycroft thinks I find the thought of sex alarming – I don't, you know."

"Sherlock…"

"No, please John – I need to say this. I've had intimate relationships, men and women, but there was always something ….something missing." He shrugged and looked down at the space between them on the couch. "There was nothing in any of them that made me want to continue the connection, and that's why…" his voice faltered, and his body stilled.

"You really don't have to explain yourself."

The words went unheeded, as strong white teeth worried at the full lower lip.

"I have to….." he stopped and cleared his throat before starting again. "I want to tell you, John, because you have to understand. It was easy to take what I wanted from those others, to ask them to take part in what was, essentially, just a consensual act, fulfilling a physical need. I've never…" his eyes met John's, and the other man could see uncertainty in them. "I've never wanted anything as much as I want this, never needed anyone in the way I need you, and I don't know what to do about it!"

"Sherlock Holmes, are you chatting me up?" Keeping his face carefully neutral, John watched as the realisation lit up Sherlock's eyes.

"I…yes, yes I am" the younger man whispered, his hand reaching, almost nervously, to gently brush John's sleep-tousled hair away from his forehead.

"Well, that's... um… that's good then, isn't it?" John's smile would have lit up the room. "Jesus, Sherlock, I thought you were going flaky over that bloody woman!"

Sherlock sat up at that, his hand falling away from John's hair, a look of mild shock on his face.

"No, don't look at me like that. The music – that bloody music you've been playing night after night! You wrote it when – well – you know when," he took a deep breath, "so just when I was starting to think maybe I'd been mistaken about you – about us….."

"But you brought Jeanette…."

"Yeah, sad wasn't it – in denial to the last!"

"John, I…."

"Sherlock look," John interrupted "this is all very new to me, can we just take things slowly?"

Nodding, Sherlock moved away slightly, as if to give the doctor some personal space, and was quite surprised to find himself held immobile by a warm hand with slightly work-calloused fingers, as it snaked around the back of his neck.

"Not that slow, idiot!" John breathed as he pulled him closer and claimed another kiss.

oOo

A tingling numbness woke Sherlock from his light sleep, and he looked down to see John, still slumped against him, where he had slid down the couch, asleep mid conversation, in the early hours of the morning. With a satisfied smile he extricated himself, gently lowering his doctor onto the cushions. Slipping into his bedroom, he grabbed a spare blanket from the ottoman at the foot of his bed and returned to cover him, making sure he was comfortable.

Feeling invigorated in a way he hadn't believed he ever would, he headed for the shower, and half an hour later, refreshed and dressed, he debated making tea and toast for the man still sleeping soundly in the living room. Still undecided, he was in the process of filling the kettle when heard the front door opening, and the sound of a familiar voice greeting Mrs Hudson before footsteps on the stairs made him dash to open the front door.

"Lestrade, you're out and about early." Sherlock led the way back into the kitchen.

"Yeah, I was hoping for..."Lestrade spotted the man lying on the couch and glanced back at the Consulting Detective. "Is John ill?"

"Is he… ah, no. He was having difficulty sleeping, so when he dozed off there I thought it best to leave him."

"Really?" Greg couldn't keep the disbelief out of his voice.

"Well he's no use to me if he's too tired to work!" a sharply raised eyebrow dared the police officer to make anything more of it. As it was, the statement was so totally 'Sherlock' that Greg just shook his head, bringing his mind back to the reason he had called.

"Oh, right. We have a body in a locked room, will you come?"

"Where?"

"Edmonton, Victoria Road – unfortunately it's the local Tory party candidate, Charles Markham. There's a by-election due in a week or two, and this has well and truly thrown a spanner in the works!"

"One of the other candidates? – No, too obvious – Wife? Mistress? Boyfriend?"

"Apparently all of the above." Greg rolled his eyes. "Not fussy by all accounts, had money enough to support the lifestyle, and was rumoured to be playing around with the opposition."

Sherlock rubbed his hands almost gleefully. "Interesting!"

"Even more interesting would be you making that cup of tea you started before Greg arrived." John's sleepy voice startled them both as he wandered, dishevelled and wrapped in the blanket, through to the kitchen. "Or shall I?"

Yawning and scratching his head, he switched the kettle on and rooted around in the cupboards for the makings of his favourite brew.

"Greg?"

"Uh, no thanks, I'd better get over to the crime scene. You'll be there?"

"We both will," John answered as he grabbed the milk from the fridge "Just as soon as we've had a cuppa and I've showered and dressed – I draw the line at crime scenes in my PJ's Sherlock, so don't even think it!" And with that he thrust a mug of tea into Sherlock's hands, and wandered back to sit on the couch.

"We'll be right behind you."

Greg nodded, satisfied, and left, running lightly down the stairs and out to his car.

Sherlock walked into the living room and sat on the coffee table, facing John.

"Good morning."

Blue eyes looked at him over the rim of the mug.

"I'm sorry, I fell asleep."

"Yes, you did. So did I surprisingly, so I think that makes us even." He leaned forward, elbows resting on knees, and stared into his cup. "And are you okay? About us?"

"I'm good – you?"

"Trying not to rush you," came the smiling reply "however, our crime scene awaits!"

oOo

The crime scene was alive with police and forensics officers when Sherlock and John arrived. Leaving John to pay the cab fare, the consulting detective stalked towards the blue and white police tape.

"I'm sorry, Sir," the fresh faced young constable put his hand on the tape to stop it being lifted. "You can't enter the cordon; you'll have to find another way round."

"I think you'll find I can!"

John caught up with him in time to hear the rest of his remark.

"You see, Dr Watson and I are here at the invitation of Detective Inspector Lestrade"

Sherlock caught the echo of the words "play nice, Sherlock" as John slipped past him.

"Do you want to check it out first? We can wait." John pointed towards the door, where Greg stood, head down, deep in conversation with Sally Donovan.

As the constable hurried away, John heard Sherlock growling in frustration, and turned to smile up at him.

"Poor lad's probably terrified of getting it wrong – I imagine he plans a long and illustrious career in the force, and doesn't want you messing it up before it's even started."

"Well, it's not as if he'll make it to Chief Superintendent, coming from a deprived background. None of his colleagues particularly like him, and he's all but invisible to his Sergeant."

John rolled his eyes, but refrained from continuing their conversation as the constable returned and held the tape up for them.

"Sorry, Sir, I didn't realise….." His words were addressed to Sherlock, but he had already walked past, barely nodding his thanks.

"Really, Lestrade, you should get more experienced people to man the cordon." Sherlock's eyes flicked towards Sally, as if implying she would be better employed there, but the neither officer rose to that particular bait.

"He's not there for your convenience." Greg said, leading the way into the large detached house. "The body's in the bedroom."

"Who found him?"

"Mrs Gina Markham, his wife. She'd been away overnight at some conference or other – I've got people checking that out already. The door was locked -"

"Spare key?" John asked.

"No, bolted. Window locked, no other means of entry."

A camera flashed as they walked into the room, Anderson looked up and groaned.

"Great." He said flatly.

"Ah, I see Anderson's taking photographs again – all of them hopelessly overexposed I don't doubt."

"Shut up, Sherlock." Lestrade snapped. "He gets paid to be here, you on the other hand are here by invitation."

"And you are hardly likely to stop inviting me, because you need my help."

"We can do this without you!" Anderson spat.

"And the murderer will get off scot free while you all run around, with your hopeless theories, and your inability to see what is in front of you!"

"Not now, Sherlock." John didn't need to raise his voice, yet everyone in the room stopped talking. "Can we save this particular pissing contest for afterwards?" Stepping up to the bed he indicated the livid marks on the man's neck. "It's obvious he's been strangled," he pulled on some latex gloves and crouched down beside the bed raising one of the victims' hands, flexing the fingers and wrist. "Although looking at the nail beds, I'd say that he'd been suffering either from chronic heart or renal problems, or at a push, HIV."

Sherlock looked up from his study of the splintered door frame.

"You're sure?"

"Of course not, Sherlock, not without a full autopsy or his medical records – just suggesting possibilities," he stood as Anderson moved over to have a closer look and take more photographs. "He's exhibiting a condition known as 'Terry's Nails'."

"Ah." Sherlock lost interest, and moved away from the door to examine the large full length windows that opened onto a tiny balcony overlooking the garden. These too were bolted shut. Sliding the bolt, he stepped out and peered down, taking in the paved patio, numerous tubs full of plants and rose bushes, and the path that led around the side of the house and out onto the street.

After carefully scrutinising the windows and then the railings around balcony, Sherlock dashed out of the room and down the stairs. He appeared in the garden moments later, and Greg and John watched as he dashed around, staring at the ground, before backtracking around the side of the house.

"Well" he said as he re-entered the room, rubbing his hands together, his eyes sparkling. "We know how the killer locked the room from the inside, and how they left the premises without causing suspicion. All that's left is to determine who in his life wanted him dead!"

"We do?"

"We do, Lestrade, if only you know how to look at the evidence!" he was positively glowing with excitement. "John, look at the window, at the frame, what do you see?"

John peered at the white wooden frame, his eyes searching for any hint or clue. "I can't see any…..oh!"

Sherlock waited.

"Just here Greg, look. Two lines, indentations, either side of the bolt, continuing round to the outside edge." John looked across at his friend. "The killer used, what? String? Wire maybe? Looped around the bolt, so that when it was pulled from the outside it would cause the mechanism to slide, locking the window."

"Exactly! Then the killer dropped down to the patio, and simply walked out through the unlocked garden gate." He looked down at Lestrade. "That's the first bit solved for you, if you send me the autopsy results and Anderson's attempts at photography, I'll let you know who did it. Right, come on John!"

"But…."

Sherlock wasn't listening, he had already disappeared out of the door.

"Text him, Greg, we'll come to the Yard." John smiled as he walked past the frustrated police officer.

He was only just in time to jump in the cab beside the consulting detective, who was already lost in thought about which of the victim's bedfellows had finally decided enough was enough. Throughout the journey back to Baker Street John was also thinking, dividing his attention between the passing scenery and the marble-still profile of his – his what? Partner? Well, in a way they'd always been that, from a work perspective, so lover? No, the relationship hadn't reached that stage yet. Boyfriend then? What was it Sherlock had said that night after the pool? Too pedestrian – John almost chuckled at the younger man's almost Victorian mode of speech sometimes – but that was by far the best description of the 'boyfriend' tag. Giving himself a mental shake he realised it didn't matter – what, after all, is in a name?

"John? John are you okay?"

Sherlock's voice roused him from thought. He looked around, realising they were home.

"Uh, yeah, sorry."

"You were staring at me – I called your name three times."

John grinned as he opened the cab door and stepped out onto the pavement, waiting until Sherlock had paid the fare then together they crossed the pavement. Neither man spoke until they reached the flat, shutting the world out with the closing of the door.

"You're right to give 'boyfriend' a miss." Sherlock said as he flung himself full length along the couch.

"How did….no, don't answer that. Just tell me why."

"It's boring, and I'd hate to be boring."

"Sherlock!" John couldn't help but laugh. "That's it? Because it's boring?"

"Yes, that and the fact that we really don't need labels, but you'd already come to that conclusion, hadn't you?" Sherlock let his eyes wander up to meet John's. "I wonder that you felt the need to even consider it."

"I'm still trying to get my head around…well, around us, I suppose." He caught the widening of his friend's eyes and added hurriedly "No, I haven't changed my mind, not at all. It just takes a bit of getting used to is all." A light blush tinged his cheeks and he lowered his eyes.

In seconds Sherlock was back on his feet beside him.

"This is new to me too, you know." He said earnestly, "I don't know quite where we go from here. At least you have had relationships – mine were never that."

"Let's not over-think it then, see where it takes us?"

Sherlock leaned down close to John's ear and whispered "While we're waiting, how about some tea?"

oOo

It was quite late into the afternoon before the text finally arrived from Greg. Sherlock had spent hours thinking through the possibilities of the murder, John had 'Googled' the dead man, and managed to find some of the more sordid details of his life as the man's Facebook account went ballistic with comments from friends, enemies, political opponents, and rather tellingly the boyfriend _and_ the mistress.

By the time they walked into the Detective Inspector's office they had a good idea of the victim's life, loves and a whole raft of possible motives. Spread out on a side table were the crime scene photographs, and on Greg's desk were several copies of the autopsy report.

"You were right, John," Greg said as he gestured to the reports in front of him. "He had fairly well developed HIV, so all his sexual partners are both at risk, and potential suspects."

Sherlock was already reading the reports, and rifling through the photographs. John sat down.

"Good to know all that training didn't go to waste!" he grinned "Although it was a bit of a long shot. I've been doing some background checks on the victim – he wasn't a popular man, but I suppose his money made him more attractive. Did the wife's alibi check out?"

"Yes, but she's not squeaky clean either – she's been having an affair with one of her husbands' constituency officers, Patrick Delahaye."

"So we have another possible suspect…."

"Whoever did it was expected, he either let them in himself, or more likely, they had a key." Sherlock dropped a picture of the victim lying in his bed onto the desk. "Look closely, there's a very slight indentation in the blankets on the edge of the bed – I would suggest that whoever strangled him sat there, possibly kissed him, certainly distracted him, it is relatively easy to strangle someone who was a weakened by illness as he was."

"Narrows it down then, to the mistress or the boyfriend." Lestrade picked up his phone but Sherlock leaned across and put his hand on the cradle.

"Are you certain? Look at the time of death. The wife had enough time to do the deed, with help from her lover," he dropped another photograph onto the desk. "Look there, at the drop from the bedroom window to the patio. The only way to be sure of not injuring yourself dropping that distance, is to have someone there to catch you, break your fall."

"The wife then, and her lover." John supplied. "Why?"

"It's obvious, John. Either he passed the HIV virus to her, and her to her lover, or she wanted rid of him for the money, and wasn't prepared to wait for the disease to kill him."

"And the lover?" Lestrade asked "What does he get?"

"Elected, if he's lucky. He's the natural replacement as the Tory party candidate."

oOo

They travelled with Greg and Sally to Delahaye's home, standing behind the officers as they knocked on the door. Despite the glow of lights in the house there was no answer.

As Sally raised her hand to knock a second time, John's head shot up and he listened intently - then

"Sherlock – round the back!" and the pair took off at speed, racing down the side of the house and in through the gate, where they could see Delahaye sprinting for the fence at the end of the garden. He jumped. Trying to haul himself over the sturdy wood barrier, he almost made it, but John launched himself, knocking the man back down to the flower bed. In less than a minute it was all over, and Patrick Delahaye was cuffed and sitting in the back of a police car.

Sally, who had followed them round the back of the house, emerged with a sobbing woman, Gina Markham. She was led, handcuffed, to a second car, ready to be escorted back to the yard by Sally Donovan.

John stood and watched as the cars pulled away, unconsciously rubbing at his shoulder.

"You okay?" Greg asked, concerned.

"Landed on my shoulder – probably not the best idea." John winced as he rotated the joint. "I don't suppose you carry decent pain killers in your first aid kit?"

"Sorry, only aspirin – any good?"

John shook his head. Greg gestured towards the car.

"Look, jump in, I'll get you home."

"Thanks mate," opening the door he slid into the back seat, Sherlock sliding in beside him.

"Well that was boring!" the consulting detective exclaimed as the car pulled away. "I was hoping at least for a better reason to kill him than his contracting HIV – there were so many possibilities!"

"Sherlock!" both of his companions cried together.

""What?" he looked genuinely nonplussed.

"Not good" John said softly, hugging his arm across his chest to immobilise his shoulder and leaning his head back against the headrest.

Sherlock looked carefully at his friend, deducing the level of pain he was suffering.

"What can I do to help?" he asked suddenly.

John shook his head. "Nothing really – just landed awkwardly, it'll be okay once I take some pain relief." He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, trying to relax.

Fortunately, the traffic flow was relatively steady, and in less than 20 minutes he was gently easing himself back out of the police car and across the pavement, thanking Greg as he went.

Sherlock was ahead of him, opening the door and solicitously standing to one side to allow the injured man access. Without a word to the Detective Inspector, he then slammed the door shut and ran up the stairs to the flat.

John followed at a considerably slower pace, closing the flat door behind him and heading straight for his room and his hospital prescription pain killers. Swallowing down a couple of pills with the stale glass of water that stood on his bedside table, he sat for a moment or two, rotating his shoulder, trying to ease the stiffness, so lost in thought that he didn't hear Sherlock ascend the stairs and move to stand in the doorway.

"I imagine a hot shower would help loosen that up."

John flinched and looked up at him.

"Not sneaking up on me would help too!" he snapped, and then was instantly sorry, but as he opened his mouth to apologise the younger man silenced him with a graceful wave of his hand.

"No, don't apologise, it's not as if you haven't told me that before." He said with a slight smile, which grew broader as John's eyes grew wider. "Yes, John, I _do_ listen to you sometimes – and sometimes I even remember what you've told me!"

"Wonders will never cease!" John stood and grabbed clean pyjamas and a towel "Think I'll get that shower before this stiffens up completely"

"Hungry?"

"You cooking?"

Sherlock pulled a face.

"Ah, then I assume while I'm in the shower you'll order in something incredibly expensive and way beyond our budget?"

"Of course," the shining grey eyes were totally at odds with the serious expression "I'll be charging it to Mycroft's credit card."

oOo

The evening panned out nicely, with their dinner arriving just as John emerged from the bathroom, showered and warmly wrapped up in pyjama bottoms, t-shirt and dressing gown, and while Sherlock divided the food between two trays and carried them through to the living room, John brewed a pot of tea.

Sherlock even managed to surprise himself with the amount of food he ate, noticing for the first time the direct correlation between that and the look of contentment on John's face, but when the meal was over and the older man sat watching the usual round of crap telly, Sherlock fidgeted in his chair anxiously.

"What?" John suddenly spoke, catching his flatmate off guard.

There was a moment or two of silence before he responded "How slowly?"

John stared. Then he shifted slightly in his chair, blinked slowly as if to clear his thoughts and said

"Not very"

"Ah"

"Problem?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"No"

"Good"

They sat staring for a moment, then

"You really should try to get some sleep tonight Sherlock. You have no cases at the moment, seems like a good idea to recharge your batteries."

"I slept last night…"

"You slept for all of about an hour and a half this morning! I know, Sherlock, I was there, remember?"

Chewing thoughtfully at his lips, he let himself relax back into his chair before replying.

"I'll sleep tonight, if…"

"Yes" the response was instant, as was the dilating of John's pupils.

Sherlock felt his breath catch in his throat, and his heart start to pound. Suddenly he wasn't at all sure what to do next. John was watching him, a slight smile curving his lips.

"I said sleep, Sherlock, and if you want me there with you then yes, I'll be there" he stood and quickly collected the remains of the dinner onto one tray, heading for the kitchen as he continued "Go and get ready for bed, I'll be with you in a moment."

Not needing to be told twice Sherlock shot through to his room, throwing his clothes haphazardly over the back of a chair and pulling on jersey pyjama bottoms, deciding not to wear a t-shirt. He had just settled into bed when he heard John move upstairs, and so he lay frowning for a moment, wondering if he had misunderstood, but the sound of footsteps returning back down to the kitchen reassured him.

It seemed like an age before the sharp click of lights being switched off heralded the arrival of the blond doctor into the inner sanctum of Sherlocks room. He held a glass of water in one hand, a bottle of pills in the other.

"Pain relief," he explained shortly, "shoulder's still sore."

"Do you want me to take a look at it for you?" Sherlock offered as John climbed in beside him, and was surprised to see an embarrassed flush steal up the other man's cheeks.

"No, it's…." he paused, his blue eyes drawn to pale perfection of Sherlock's chest as the other man propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at him, concerned. "It's not a pretty sight."

"Stop that!" A flash of anger swept through Sherlock as he looked down at John and read shame in his eyes. "I'm not one of your simpering girlfriends, John," he growled, his voice dropping an octave, "I'm hardly likely to be shocked by your injury, much less judge you on it!"

"How did you know?" for a moment John stopped worrying about his scar, more concerned that Sherlock had known exactly how his last two girlfriends had reacted.

"Please!"

John supposed it was the rolling of Sherlock's eyes that started it, but that word – and those eyes – were all it took for the pair of them to burst into fits of giggles.

"Come on," the younger man said, gasping for breath, "get that bloody old t-shirt off and let me see your body!"

If John had been asked, moments later, how many arms Sherlock had he might well have replied 'hundreds!' as before he knew it his t-shirt was flying across the bedroom, and he was lying under the burning gaze of a man who saw, who observed, absolutely everything. Nervously he licked his lips, waiting for judgement to be given. When it came it nearly stunned him .

Sherlock leaned down, his hand gently stroking across the disfigured flesh before his lips took the same journey, gently kissing and licking, nuzzling his cheek against it, as he whispered softly

"Without this, I wouldn't have you, and I wouldn't change a thing about you, John Watson – I've been looking for you all my life!"

The words carried a bolt of electricity through John's body, and he could feel himself responding to Sherlock's explorations , and aroused beyond belief he reached for the slender but strong body that hovered over him, pulling him down, arching up to bring their bodies together.

Hiding a smug smile, Sherlock brought his lips up to John's, his hand trailing teasingly down across well-defined pecs and solid abs, hovering around the waistband of John's pyjama bottoms.

"Sherlock, please….."

Now Sherlock allowed that smile to cross his face, and he repeated the words he'd used, way back when all this started, knowing this time – _this time!_ – he'd get the response he had wanted so badly back then.

"Please? Please what, John? What is it you want from me?"

"I….I….I want…" he thrust his hips upwards again, this time causing Sherlock's hand to slide inside, brushing against John's throbbing arousal, while his own hands slid inside the younger man's trousers clutching and stroking the smooth firm buttocks, allowing himself a small smile of his own as he heard the hitch in Sherlock's breathing.

Deepening their kiss, Sherlock moved his hand to cup and stroke John, revelling in the shudders that ran through the smaller man's body as, with an incoherent cry he reached a heated climax, convulsively pulling their bodies together, his body surging upwards once more and pushing Sherlock to his own fulfilment.

Neither man felt able to speak, nor was there a need to do so. Lazily running his hand down John's arm, Sherlock rolled him onto his side, scooting up behind him and wrapping his arms around him, pulling them tightly together. Sated and relaxed, and with the buzz of life on Baker Street a distant hum in the background, both men slipped into a deep and peaceful sleep.


	5. We Could Live For A Thousand Years

**Especially for MapleleafCameo!  
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, John et al – wish I did.**

Sherlock drew a deep breath, his awakening senses noting the scent at the same time as they registered the warm skin, the pulsating movement as lungs inhaled and exhaled in regular rhythm. A smile touched his lips.

'_John'_ his mind spoke, knowing if he gave voice to the name the man lying peacefully in his arms would wake.

This was a first for him, waking up in his own bed with someone sleeping beside him, waking up feeling – his mind struggled for a moment to identify it, but then the word rose as if speaking directly from his heart to his brain – complete.

His eyes adjusting to the light, he let his gaze roam over the tousled blond hair, his fingers remembering how it felt as they stroked through it. He couldn't resist any longer, he buried his face in the nape of John's neck and inhaled deeply, his arms tightening again around John's body, one hand gently pressed against the smaller man's heart.

"Mmmmm" John's hand moved to cover Sherlock's, his slightly calloused fingers sliding across the back of his hand, caressing his skin, sending quivers along his nerve endings.

"John" Sherlock whispered against the warm skin of the other man's shoulder, his breath ghosting gently across the puckered scar tissue.

"No." the word was murmured gently, but with a certain finality.

Sherlock lifted his head up from where his lips had been worrying the lightly tanned skin of his doctor's neck. He waited to see if there was more to come, but John remained silent and unmoving, apart from the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

"John?"

"I said, no, Sherlock."

"I…I don't understand…" Sherlock could feel his stomach tightening uncomfortably.

"I'm not getting out of this very warm and exceedingly comfortable bed, just to make tea." John smiled to himself as he leaned into the other man, feeling the relief flood through him, relaxing him.

"I suppose I'll have to then…"Sherlock started, reluctantly, to move away.

"Don't!" The smaller man's hand stopped his movement, made sure his hand stayed pressed against his heart. "Don't leave. Tea can wait"

"Really?" a chuckle escaped the younger man. "I thought tea was the answer to everything, John…"

"Nope."

"Then what is?"

"Forty two!"

"Pardon?" Sherlock was confused – this was quite the strangest conversation he had ever had with John – and there had been some very strange conversations over the months that they had shared the flat!

"Forty two – the answer to life, the universe, and everything in it." John wriggled round to lay on his back, and cracked open one eye to stare up at the expression on the younger man's face. "Sherlock, have you _ever_ read any popular fiction?" The expression didn't change. "Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy?"

"Solar system again, John – deleted."

"Out" With a wicked grin, John pushed the skinny detective towards the edge of the bed. "Out now, ignoramus!"

"Not a chance!" nimbly avoiding John's hands, Sherlock flung himself on top of the smaller man, wrestling his arms above his head and pinning his hands to the pillows. Leaning in close, he kissed John deeply before sucking the doctor's lower lip into his mouth, his tongue sliding back and forth over it. Finally coming up for air he looked down into John's wide, almost innocent blue eyes, arched an elegant eyebrow and whispered "Standing to attention, Captain?"

oOo

Stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around his waist, John wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror and stared at his reflection. There was no doubting the feelings he had for Sherlock, he was only surprised he had tried to fight it for so long – even after the incident at the pool, he had hidden from his own feelings. The bloke in the mirror didn't _look_ stupid, so why had he wasted so much time denying what was so obviously true? The fleeting thought that Mrs Hudson would be pleased to have 'a couple' of her own – even if they weren't married ones – crossed his mind as he grinned at his reflection before heading back up to his room.

Sherlock lay in bed, listening to the sounds of running water, identifying each time his doctor moved under the spray from the shower. And then, when the water ceased, he listened to the silence, waiting longer than he had anticipated before hearing the sound of the door opening, and swift footsteps moving upstairs. Flinging back the covers he rolled himself out of bed and headed for the shower, hoping that John hadn't used all of the hot water.

Finally the consulting detective made it into the kitchen, to find John nursing a mug of tea in both hands, and staring at the floor. He didn't move or acknowledge the other man's presence. A mug of black coffee had been placed next to his (currently unemployed) microscope.

Sliding into a chair, Sherlock picked up the coffee – still hot – and studied John as he sipped the strong beverage. It was obvious, judging by the expression on his face – the hint of a frown, the nervous chewing of the lower lip – the blond doctor was thinking about what had happened over the last twelve hours. Sherlock waited patiently. Patience was a virtue usually reserved for his experiments, but this was important to him, this morning had opened up a world of possibilities, and because of this he needed John to be comfortable with their relationship. He must have momentarily lost concentration, because when he next focussed on his flatmate the ex-army doctor was staring at him, his clear blue eyes taking in every sharp angle of cheekbone and jawline, every soft shadow cast by long thick eyelashes. Sherlock saw it, the second that John came to a decision. Unconsciously he sat up straighter as he watched John move towards him.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock…" the older man said softly "I should have told you sooner." He closed the gap between them, putting his mug on the table as he stepped up close. Sherlock kept eye contact, lifting his head as John moved to stand right next to him. In silence they stared at each other.

John's put his hand on Sherlock's head, his fingers combing through the still damp curls as he pulled the younger man's head against his chest.

Sherlock's eyes closed as he listened to the thudding of John's heart, leaning into the solid body standing beside him, feeling the warm hand cupping his head, the other arm draped across his shoulder.

"I don't think I understood it myself," his voice was low, but Sherlock could hear it rumble through the other man's chest. "I'm sorry, you must have thought….must have felt…"

Wrapping his arms around John's waist, Sherlock looked up again, smiling now as he understood what the other man was trying to say.

"That hardly matters now, John, as long as you are still okay with this, with us?"

Dropping a light kiss on the top of Sherlocks head he grinned back.

"Told you – I'm good."

oOo

Struggling up the stairs several hours later with overflowing shopping bags, John glanced into the living room to see Sherlock hunched over the coffee table, papers and photo's strewn across its surface. He was studying one photograph in particular through his magnifying glass, a look of dissatisfaction marring his face.

"Problem?" John asked, switching on the kettle before packing the supplies away.

"Something doesn't look right about this," he waved a shiny 10 x 8 crime scene photograph. "The pattern of the blood spatter is all wrong!"

"Ah. Cold case I take it?"

"Of course, John, don't be obtuse! If it were new we would be there, actually looking at the blood, not relying on Anderson's team and their appalling photography skills."

"Right." Another pause as he poured boiling water into two mugs, then "Background?"

"Apparently the victim was stabbed to death in his bed, but like I said, the blood is all wrong and the bedclothes are too neat….Gah!" he flung the picture away, and collapsed back onto the couch.

Clearing a space amongst the papers, John put a mug of tea down, taking his own over to his chair, and picking up the offending photograph as he did so and staring at it, frowning, but he couldn't fathom what was wrong with the blood.

Sipping his tea, he flicked his eyes towards the man on the couch, and saw he was being studied in a thoughtful fashion. He returned the gaze, and waited.

"John, I need…."

"No!"

"But…."

"I said no, Sherlock. You are not having so much as a drop of my blood, let alone..." he thrust the picture back on top of the others on the table "…the pint or two it would take to replicate that!"

"John, it's for research – you know I wouldn't ask you otherwise!"

"Yes, you would! And don't go thinking you can use your blood either – it's not happening, Sherlock, find another way to test your theory."

"Please?"

"Oh no you don't!" John crossed his arms over his chest and glared. "Don't you dare try that! Please isn't part of your normal vocabulary – it's no use thinking if you use it now, you'll get my blood for your experiment…"

"Research, John…"

"Experiment, Sherlock! Stop trying to dress it up as anything different!"

"What if I use some of yours and some of mine…."

"Jesus, Sherlock! What part of 'no' don't you understand?" standing up John ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end and giving him the distinct look of a worried hedgehog.

Sherlock followed the movement with hungry, fascinated eyes, remembering how those fingers felt running through his curls that morning. He was torn – he wanted to run his fingers where John's had just run, but he wanted to solve this particular puzzle, to prove once again that he could out-think a killer. Then a thought struck him – and his eyes narrowed as he looked intently at the blond doctor.

John stared back, equally intently, then a wide grin spread across his face.

"Y'know, prettier faces than yours have tried to coerce me into doing things I don't want to do." He laughed.

"Did they succeed?"

"Nope"

"Worth a try, I suppose."

John picked up his empty mug and walked out to the kitchen, saying softly as he passed

"Not a chance!"

When he looked back into the living room, Sherlock had stretched himself out on the couch, his fingers steepled, their tips resting against his full lower lip.

"Making a snack, Sherlock, and you're going to eat it."

"I thought we were out of 'decent food'" came the bored response, referring to an earlier conversation.

"Been shopping"

"Oh" the curly-headed genius thought for a moment, then "but it's Sunday"

John put his head back through the doorway and frowned.

"Where have you been living for the past twenty years? Supermarkets have been opening on Sunday since the early nineties!"

"Ah"

John stared for a moment, and then with a shake of his head returned to making sandwiches.

Sherlock reached over to the desk, and picked up John's laptop from where it was precariously perched, on top of a pile of case notes and files. He was rapidly flicking through web sites when John thrust a plate of food in front of him.

"Eat!"

"John, I'm working…"

"You're also burning extra calories these days," John smirked "if you don't replace that lost energy you'll run out of steam half way through your investigation."

Sherlock frowned up at him, his mind working through what had been said.

"Eat, Sherlock, it won't stop you thinking despite what you say."

With a reluctant sigh, the younger man accepted the plate and picking up a sandwich bit into it, as if was his sworn enemy.

oOo

Throughout the afternoon and evening, Sherlock remained hunched over the laptop, his fingers swiftly attacking the keyboard as he trawled through web site after web site with varying levels of success.

John kept him hydrated with tea at regular intervals, but as he wasn't being asked to run errands or research anything he was making the most of a lazy Sunday afternoon, re-reading his favourite H G Wells novel. He even managed to repeat his earlier success, and persuade Sherlock to eat some dinner, catching him as he returned from his mind palace, and before he rushed off for a marathon 'pace' around the living room while he made a telephone call.

"Right, washing up's done," John informed his flatmate, returning from the kitchen. "How far have you got with that cold case? Deduced the blood spatter yet?"

"Not yet, John," Sherlock's eyes were shining though, usually a sign that he was onto something. "But I have made arrangements to meet with someone who can supply me with a live pig."

"A live….Sherlock! What the hell are you planning to do with a live pig?"

"Kill it, John. What else would I do with it?"

John just stared at Sherlock, not at all sure what to say about that. After a moment or two he found his voice again.

"When? Tonight?"

"No, not enough time to set it up tonight."

"Tomorrow morning then – early"

"Very"

"Okay" John looked at his watch "we'd better get an early night then."

Sherlock stood and looked a little uncertain. John just smiled.

"Yes – do you really need to ask?"

They walked in silence through to Sherlock's bedroom.

Sherlock's fingers reached to undo the buttons on his shirt, only to be grasped lightly by John. He looked down into the doctor's eyes.

"What do you like?" John met Sherlock's questioning gaze unwaveringly. "You've had experience – in some ways more than I have – you must have an idea of what you like, what" he wiggled his eyebrows "does it for you?"

His question was met with silence, and a blank stare from the younger man. He frowned.

"You do have things that you….I mean, Sherlock?"

"My….my previous partners….it wasn't like that, it was just…."

"Even if it's just fulfilling a need, surely…?" John's face took on a stunned expression as the man in front of him just shook his head. "Oh Sherlock!" the words came out as an anguished whisper, and he felt an almost unbearable sadness for what his friend had missed. Pushing that aside he smiled and slowly started to unbutton the shirt himself. "We'll have to do something about that then."

He had almost completed his task when Sherlock seemed to wake himself up, moving his long musicians fingers up to work on the buttons of John's shirt.

Slowly, they undressed each other, hands touching, lips following where fingers had trailed. As soon as they were naked John pushed Sherlock backwards onto the bed, lifting his long legs onto the sheets before climbing up next to him.

"Do you trust me?"

"John?"

"I said, do you trust me? I can't do this unless you trust me, Sherlock; you need to trust me, relax, and enjoy the ride." His gaze never left those beautiful almond shaped grey eyes that stared back, widening slightly at his words. He must have been satisfied with the answer, because he gave a small nod, and ran his knuckles gently down the side of Sherlock's face, leaning in for a kiss before turning his attention to that long, slender, white neck.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed as John nipped and licked his way down that throat, planting little sucking kisses along his collarbone. He groaned as the good doctors ministrations moved lower, his tongue laving first one nipple then, and when it was swollen and aching for more, he gave the same attention to the other, smiling as the man under his lips moaned and shivered.

Trailing his hand in lazy circles, John watched in fascination as the muscles under Sherlock's skin contracted with every fresh sweep, so he increased the pressure, feeling the warmth of the soft pale flesh, feeling the undulation of the body under his hand as it strained upwards to meet him. Sliding his hand over to grasp a pale bony hip he resumed his licking and sucking, making his way further down, fleetingly giving attention to the most perfect belly button he has ever seen, scraping his teeth lightly across the delicate, sensitive skin.

Long fingers reached down and grasped the soft blond hair at the back of his head, tugging insistently, until John looked up into desire-filled eyes.

"I….will you….can you…." The velvety baritone was lost, to be replaced by a hoarse croak

John smiled at his incoherence.

"Lost for words?" he whispered teasingly, then he dipped his head once more, this time taking Sherlock into his mouth, his tongue circling the tip before sinking lower. His hand slid up the inside of Sherlock's thigh, nails softly scratching, reaching the top, then cupping and squeezing gently in time to the movement of his tongue against the swollen shaft.

Sherlock came, in a rush of jerking muscles and unintelligible cries, one hand still gripping John's hair, the other bunched into the sheets, his back arching and his hips thrusting upwards.

As his breathing returned to normal, Sherlock found himself stroking John's head as it lay on his chest, a small smile on his lips.

"John"

"Hmm?"

"Come here" he started tugging on the smaller man's arm. John slid up the bed, until he felt Sherlock's hand slide around the back of his head, pulling him in for a kiss, slipping his other hand over the well-formed chest of the former soldier, down further, until his hand closed over him. John's body jerked upwards, Sherlock tightened his grip, initiating a rocking motion with his hips, rubbing his body against the man beside him, and never breaking the kiss.

John's release was swift and satisfying, and he collapsed against his lover with a moan of ecstasy. Blindly reaching behind him, he grabbed the duvet and dragged it over their rapidly cooling bodies, then curling into each other's embrace the detective and his doctor slipped quietly into the arms of Morpheus.

oOo

John was woken by the soft thud of clothing being thrown haphazardly onto the bed.

"What're you doing?" he rubbed sleepily at his face as he watched shirts and trousers flying out of the wardrobe.

"Looking for my oldest clothes, John." came the muffled reply as yet another shirt flew gracefully through the air.

"What for?"

"I refuse to ruin my best clothing conducting an experiment with a pig!"

"Ah, yes. The pig." Sitting up and yawning, John looked across at the only bit of Sherlock he could see, his bare arse half hidden by the wardrobe door, and the occasional flash of arm as he rooted around. "I'll just get showered…"

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and stepped out of the wardrobe, naked and unashamed, his alabaster skin glowing in the morning light. John licked his lips, trying to control the tightening in his groin – the movement was observed and the a wicked grin flashed across the younger man's face.

"No John, there's no need for us both to watch the pig suffer"

"If you're sure."

Sherlock returned to the problem of clothes, finally settling on an old suit – well, old by his exacting standards – and a shirt that was fraying at the cuffs.

John laid back and watched him dress, following his movements, committing them to memory.

Glancing at himself in the mirror, Sherlock reached once more into the depths of the wardrobe.

"And, of course, the final touch!" And with a flourish worthy of a magician, he pulled out a vicious looking harpoon!


	6. But If I Hurt You

**Penultimate chapter folks. I apologise, I've used a lot of S2E2 here, but the dialog is not necessarily how you remember it (otherwise it wouldn't have fitted the story!)  
Disclaimer: Don't own, never did, wish I could. I make no profit – no money at all in fact!**

John sat back in his seat and waited for the train to pull out of Paddington Station. He rarely had the opportunity to travel first class, and he was making the most of the comfy seats and spacious compartment. Slouched in the seat opposite him, Sherlock was studying the internet, his thumbs moving over the touch screen of his phone as he switched between sites.

"Anything interesting?" John asked as with a jolt the train finally started to move. There was no response, so after a moment or two his pulled his dog-eared book out of his pocket to resume his flight from HG Wells' Martians.

"It's not possible." Sherlock's deep baritone broke through John's concentration, and made him drop the book. He looked across to see grey eyes watching him.

"What isn't?"

"For Martians to exist"

John stared for a moment, then

"You can say that with certainty, yet you deleted the Solar system from your hard drive. Sherlock, it's a _story_ – just a good, old fashioned yarn – fiction – ever heard of it?!"

"Boring."

John rolled his eyes heavenward, and returned to his book.

oOo

The smell of coffee woke him up, and he blinked owlishly at the plastic lidded cup that stood in front of him. Opposite him Sherlock was sipping from his own cup, watching as the last vestiges of sleep cleared from his face. John stretched, yawned, and reached out for the drink.

"Thanks"

"You find it easy to sleep"

"There were times in Kandahar when sleep was a luxury – you just learned to take it when you could, where you could." He shrugged. "No big deal really"

Sherlock nodded, and glanced out of the window.

"We'll be in Tiverton Park soon; probably another twenty minutes or so from there to Exeter – I've arranged a hire car for us."

"Oh, right" John thought for a moment, then "Didn't know you could drive"

Sherlock's gaze snapped back to the man sitting opposite him.

"Of course I can – can't you?"

John shook his head.

"Never really had the need," he smiled at the slightly shocked expression "Until I started hanging about with the world's only consulting detective, I either walked or used public transport – even cabs were a luxury" he took another swig of his coffee. "And anyway, who in their right mind would want to drive in central London?"

"Point taken"

They sat in companionable silence for a while, each sipping the remains of their coffee, deep in their own thoughts. It was as they pulled out of Tiverton that John brought his thoughts back to the case at hand.

"So, a gigantic hound on Dartmoor - where do you intend to start?"

"I thought we'd have a look at the area, find somewhere to stay, and then make a decision what to do next." He looked thoughtfully at his friend. "How are your map reading skills?"

"Really Sherlock? You had to ask that?"

"Just because you were in the army, it doesn't follow…."

"Oh, yes it does. In fact, it's prerequisite for passing out of Sandhurst, mate! They can't have their officers running around getting lost, now can they?"

oOo

From Exeter they drove up to Dartmoor, to get the lay of the land before swinging back down to the village of Grimpen. John didn't know whether to be pleased or frustrated that the Cross Keys Inn had no double rooms available, but with a knowing wink the Manager pointed out that there was a connecting door between the rooms.

Sherlock was prowling around the Inn, coat collar turned up, like a kid playing at being a spy. With a resigned grin John left him to it, picking up the bags and heading for the stairs. He returned moments later to find his flatmate practicing his 'acting' skills on the tour guide they had passed on the way in.

"Got any proof?" Sherlock's voice reached his ears as he carried his drink across to where the two men sat.

"Why would I tell you if I did?" the guide, a youngish lad called Fletcher, stood to leave. "'Scuse me…"

"I called Henry…" John placed his glass on the table and sat opposite Sherlock.

"Bet's off, John." the younger man interrupted, turning to glance briefly at him, before looking down at his watch.

"What?"

"My plan needs darkness…."

"Bet?" Fletcher's ears pricked up "What bet?"

"Oh, I bet John here fifty quid that you couldn't prove you'd seen the hound."

"Yeah," realising what his friend was up to, John turned to look at the guide expectantly "the guys in the pub said you could." Then he sat back and watched Sherlock play with the kid, like a cat plays with a mouse.

It was fascinating to watch, and he only half listened to the conversation – he was busy watching the myriad of different expressions that crossed his lover's face, carried away by the pitch and tone of that beautiful baritone voice, and because he was not concentrating, the giant plaster cast of a paw print that Fletcher pulled out of his bag almost caused him to choke on his drink. Pulling himself rapidly back to the present, he looked at Sherlock.

"We did say fifty?"

The money was handed over as Sherlock rose to leave the table, and John had to swallow his drink down quickly and almost run to catch up with him.

"Where to?" He asked once they were in the car. Sherlock concentrated on manoeuvring the vehicle before replying – his response shocked the air out of John's lungs. He sat gaping, his brain struggling to make sense of Sherlock's strategy.

"You're taking us to Baskerville? I mean, seriously?"

"Yes, why? You have a problem with that?"

John turned in his seat, as far as his seatbelt would allow, and stared at his friend.

"Jesus Sherlock, and just how do you plan to do this? You can't blag your way into a place like Baskerville."

As they turned onto the road leading to the military complex, Sherlock looked across at John and grinned.

"Courage, Mon brave!" His accent was pure Parisian perfection.

John stared at him, one eyebrow raised, his lips almost pouting.

"Don't!" he said quietly "The only time I'll accept you going all French on me is with your tongue, and _in bed_!"

Sherlock flushed hotly, and the car swerved dangerously towards the grass verge at the side of the road. John giggled and turned back to look out of the front windscreen.

oOo

Much to John's horror – and Sherlock's smug delight – they did blag their way into the base, using a pass acquired (just in case…) from Mycroft. The blond ex-soldier was convinced they'd get caught in five minutes, but five minutes later he was pulling rank on the Corporal from security. Sherlock smiled as the persona of 'Army Captain' seemed to settle gently over John's shoulders, and he took the command stance as naturally as breathing – this was a side of John Watson not often seen, and Sherlock couldn't resist commenting as they followed Corporal Lyons.

"Nice touch" he kept a straight face, but John could hear the smile in his voice.

"Haven't pulled rank in ages."

"Enjoy it?"

"Oh yeah" his voice was low as Sherlock stepped past him to swipe Mycroft's card and gain them entrance to the 'business' end of Baskerville.

The Corporal showed them around, John asking questions every now and then, and Sherlock getting a good look around at the laboratories. They briefly met, among others, a scientist called Stapleton, who was shocked to learn that Sherlock knew about her daughter's disappearing rabbit, and Dr Frankland, who had been a friend of their client Henry Knight's father.

That meeting with Frankland had been more fortuitous that they could have realised. Major Barrymore, senior officer in the building, was furious that they were 'inspecting' his facility, and he continued to rant as he followed them towards the exit. They were almost out of the building when the alarm was raised – Mycroft's identity card was unauthorised. John maintained his composure in the face of Barrymore's ire, while Sherlock remained aloof and said nothing.

Just as things were beginning to look bad, Dr Frankland stepped forward and vouched for the consulting detective, shaking his hand and calling him 'Mycroft'. With bad grace, Barrymore allowed them to leave, and Frankland followed them out.

"Thank you" Sherlock acknowledged the scientist's help. Frankland looked at him eagerly.

"This is about Henry Knight isn't it? I knew he wanted help, but never dreamed he'd go to Sherlock Holmes!"

As the three men carried on walking, the scientist enthused about Sherlock's website, and John's blog. Much to John's amusement he insisted that he would have recognised Sherlock instantly if only he'd been wearing 'that hat' – Sherlock was equally insistent that it "wasn't my hat!" They finally managed to get away from the other man, but only after he had given them his card with his cell phone number – just in case he could help them or Henry Knight in any way.

Out of earshot of the patrolling soldiers John started to ask what the hell a disappearing, glow-in-the-dark, rabbit had to do with a monstrous hound, but he stopped mid-sentence as he watched Sherlock pull his coat tighter around himself, and turn the collar up.

"Oh please, can we not do this, this time?"

"Do what?" Sherlock stopped, looking surprised at his friend's outburst.

"You being all mysterious, with your cheekbones, and turning your coat collar up so you look cool"

"I don't do that." Came the startled response.

"Yeah, you do" He climbed back into the car, and waited for Sherlock to drive them out of the compound before asking "We going to see Henry?"

"Hmm"

"You have a plan?"

"I have three so far – I'll decide which one we'll go with when we get there"

"Oh, very helpful – no chance I suppose that you'd care to run all or any of them past me first?"

"Come now, John," Sherlock smirked "you know that's not how I work"

In the end he chose the worst plan possible – they were going to take Henry Knight back onto the moor, back to Dewer's Hollow – at night – to see if anything attacked him. John was stunned, but Henry….Henry was terrified!

oOo

Quite how John resisted the urge to tell Sherlock that he had known his plan would blow up in their faces he was never sure, but he was glad he held his tongue, especially when he realised just how spectacularly wrong it had gone.

Sitting by the fire in the cross keys, he had given up trying to interest his partner in the Morse code that had been flashing across the desolate night time landscape (U.M.Q.R.A. – what the hell did that even mean?), and was now trying to sort the facts as they knew them, with little appreciable success.

Suddenly Sherlock spoke up.

"Henry's right"

"What?"

"I saw it too"

"What?" for a moment John was too shocked to take in the meaning of the softly spoken words.

"I saw it too, John."

"You saw what?"

"A hound, out there in the hollow…a gigantic hound!"

John stared at him for a moment, bewildered. This was not the cool, scientific Sherlock Holmes that he knew; this man was a stranger.

"Look, Sherlock, we have to be rational about this okay? You of all people can't just…." He stopped, looked at the man sitting opposite him, and tried again. "Let's just stick to what we know, eh? Stick to the facts."

Sherlock looked at him, his face pale, and his lips trembled as he spoke.

"Look at me, John, I'm afraid" he held up the glass in his visibly shaking hand. "D'you see? Body's betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions….the grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment..."

"Yeah, alright….Spock, just….take it easy… You've been pretty wired lately, you know you have" As soon as he said it, John realised he had said the wrong thing. Sherlock's emotional state was far too fragile.

After the initial explosion of scorn, an explosion that had drawn the attention of the diners seated around the room, he dropped his voice to a hissing, seething verbal onslaught. On and on he went, and all John could do was sit and let him work through it, and try not to take it personally. Finally, none of the heat going out of his speech, Sherlock leaned towards his flatmate, glaring.

"So you see, I am fine, in fact, I've never been better, so just Leave Me Alone!" he turned then to stare into the fire.

John was frozen, unable for a moment to respond, then, clearing his throat he sat back in his chair.

"Okay. And why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend."

The look Sherlock gave him as his head whipped round to stare at the other man was truly savage, as was the tone of his words.

"I don't have _**friends**_"

John looked at him, his face wiped clean of any expression.

"Nah," he said softly. "Wonder why?" With nothing more to be said, he got up and walked away.

It took a while for Sherlock to realise that John hadn't just gone to get himself a drink, and he glanced around the room to see if he could see him. Next he tried the bar area, maybe he was talking to the manager, but no, no sign of him. Fishing in his pocket he pulled out the room key that John had given him, remembering that there was a connecting door between the rooms.

Entering his own room, he crossed the floor quietly and turned the handle of the connecting door. John's room was in darkness, the only light being the glow from the Inn's external lights, and his blogger was obviously not there. Until that moment Sherlock hadn't been too concerned, after all, John was used to his uncertain temper, his insults, so why was there a nagging fear at the back of his mind that had nothing to do with hounds and moors?

John meanwhile, was stumbling about on the moorland to the back of the Inn, following the source of the Morse code he had seen earlier. He kept his torch beam lowered, not only so he could see where he was putting his feet, but also in the hopes of getting closer to the signaller before he being seen. As he crested a small hillock, he stopped suddenly and stared in disgust. There ahead of him was a semi-circle of cars, and from one, the sounds of frantic, illicit lovemaking – the lights he had seen were the car headlights, flashing on and off as the occupants' gymnastics brought them into contact with the light switch. Feeling slightly sick, John turned and retraced his steps.

Cold now and feeling thoroughly miserable, John slipped in through the side door of the Inn and headed straight for the stairs. Across the bar he could see Sherlock sitting, another drink in front of him, texting. He was glad seconds later that he was out of earshot of the consulting detective, as the message pinged through on his mobile. He didn't even bother to look at it, wanting nothing more at that moment than to fall into bed. Closing and locking his door wearily behind him, he stared for a moment at the connecting door, then crossed the room, turned the key in the lock and slid the bolts across for good measure. Tonight he'd be sleeping alone.

oOo

John looked up from his notebook, and saw Sherlock walking through the churchyard towards him. Carefully maintaining a blank expression, he put his notes back into the pocket of his jacket and waited.

There was an awkward silence as Sherlock tried to deduce the man sitting looking up at him from the steps of the war memorial. His face told him nothing, but his eyes…..John would never be able to hide the truth from him, because his eyes always gave him away, whether they be shining with laughter, blown and full of desire, or, like now, clouded with a pain that was almost physical in its intensity. He knew he had to say something.

"Did you, um, did you get anywhere with that Morse code?" Damn, damn, damn! That was not what he should have been saying! Silently he cursed his own stupidity.

"No. Thought I was onto something – I was wrong" the doctor's tone almost gave his words a double meaning, and Sherlock stared in dawning horror as John stood up and turned deliberately away from him, walking towards the gateway to the village. In desperation he tried again to make conversation.

"Henry's therapist was in the Inn last night; I had hoped you would talk to her"

"Read your text this morning – I had an early night"

Sherlock followed him along the gravel pathway.

"You locked the doors"

John stopped walking, though he didn't turn around.

"Yeah, well. Why not? I'm not even your friend, am I? You don't have friends…"

"John, please!" it was an anguished cry, ripped from Sherlock's heart, speaking straight to John's, and the older man turned and looked into the face of the man he had fallen in love with, looked and saw such sorrow that it almost brought him to his knees. Closing the distance between them, John pulled Sherlock into his arms, his hand tangling into the curls at the back of the young man's head, pulling him down so that their foreheads were touching. Tears formed in Sherlock's eyes.

"Sometimes, y'know, for a genius, you are such an idiot!" John's smile was heartbreakingly sad, as were his eyes as he looked up into Sherlock's. "There was no need for all that – we could have talked it through, worked it out – but you've got to understand, I am only human, and I will only let you hurt me so many times before I walk away. I love you, you idiot, but if you can't trust me with more than just your body, then beautiful as it is, I'll leave it behind."

"But I do trust you…."

"Then don't push me away, Sherlock, I can't…I _**wo**__**n't**_ be your emotional punch bag." He stepped away, his hands slowly slipping from his lover's hair and body, but as he turned to walk away Sherlock caught his arm, holding him back, turning him back around.

When he was sure he had John's full attention, he licked his lips, and said what he had wanted to say right at the start.

"Listen, what I said before, John, I meant it – I don't have friends….I've got just one"

John's eyes flickered all over Sherlock's face, as if trying to read the truth there. Satisfied with what he saw he gave a quick nod and a brief smile, and turned again to go back to the Inn.

Sherlock fell into step beside him, theorising about the possible causes of last night's issues when he suddenly spotted a familiar face through the Inn door.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Greg Lestrade stood relaxed by the bar, his hands in his pockets.

"Well, nice to see you too! I'm on holiday, would you believe?"

"No, I wouldn't" Sherlock snapped, watching as the Detective Inspector removed his sunglasses.

Greg felt uncomfortable, well aware that Sherlock could see he had just come back from his holiday abroad.

John prevented any further unpleasantness by suddenly exclaiming

"Actually, you could be just the man we want!"

"Why?" Sherlock frowned.

"I've not been idle, Sherlock," John reached into his pocket and pulled out an invoice that he had taken from the bar while checking in the day before. "I wasn't sure if this was relevant, it's starting to look like it might be – that's an awful lot of meat for a vegetarian restaurant" He looked at Greg. "Nice scary inspector from Scotland Yard who can put in a few calls might come in very handy"

Greg and Sherlock exchanged a look – John rang the bell on the counter.

"Shop" he called, cheerfully.

The Manager knew, from the looks on the faces of the three men in the bar, that the news was not good, and together with his chef, Billy, he led them through to the smaller bar to sit and discuss the invoice.

John watched as Lestrade took the Inn's books apart, noting every bulk purchase of meat, throwing out comments and pointed remarks, until the two men finally cracked, and admitted that they had bought a large dog.

Walking around behind the small bar Sherlock made coffee for John, pausing briefly as he was about to drop into it the sugar he had stolen from Henry Knight's house earlier that morning, knowing he was pushing the boundaries of trust again. His eyes rested on John, the older man still engrossed in Lestrade's interrogation, and reasoned with himself that this was research, and that John would understand…..

"I made you coffee"

"What?" John stared at him. "You never make coffee" He took a sip, grimacing at the sugar, but the look on Sherlock's face kept him quiet and he drunk it quickly, hoping his dislike of the sweetened beverage didn't show.

When Lestrade was finished, the three men walked out of the Inn, discussing the case, and the dog that had now been put down. Greg was please that they had owned up to the scam, but decided he would have a word with the local police, just to make sure they were aware. As he left them John turned and looked at Sherlock.

"So it was their dog that people saw on the moor?"

"Looks like it"

"But that wasn't what you saw, that wasn't just an ordinary dog."

Sherlock paused, staring off into the distance.

"No, it was immense, had burning red eyes and it was glowing, john, its whole body was glowing….."

oOo

As he crouched in the cage, his breath coming shallow and rapid, sweat trickling down his forehead, John remembered the description of the dog, and his imagination – and the sounds of low growling beyond the bars – did the rest. Whispering harshly into his mobile phone he begged Sherlock to come and get him out, his voice sinking lower and lower for fear of being heard by the creature.

It seemed like hours before Sherlock found him, but when he did John shot out of the cage, shaking and gabbling about the hound, how he'd heard it, heard it growling, heard its claws on the tiled floor. Distractedly he answered Sherlock's questions – did he see the hound, did it have red eyes, did it glow? Yes, yes, and yes!

"No!"

"What?"

"I made up the bit about glowing – you saw what you expected to see, because I told you. You've been drugged, we've all been drugged"

John shook his head. "Drugged?"

"Can you walk?" Sherlock peered down at the shaken doctor.

"Course I can walk"

"Come on then, time to lay this ghost!"

Still trying to catch his breath, John followed the consulting detective through the security doors and on through to Dr Stapleton's laboratory. After a brief conversation, which was more a blackmail threat by Sherlock, and capitulation from Stapleton, they found themselves in another part of the building, and using Dr Stapleton's microscope. Despite his best efforts, Sherlock could find no hint of a drug in the sugar.

Sending John and Stapleton out, Sherlock retreated to his mind palace. As they walked down the corridor in silence, John mulled over the realisation that his friend had set him up, sent him to the lab as part of his experiment. His footsteps slowed.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Doctor Stapleton frowned at him.

He smiled tiredly "Yeah…yeah I'm fine, really."

The sound of footsteps hurrying behind them caused them to look around, and seeing it was Sherlock they stopped and waited for him.

"I need access to your computers – the 'Hound' is actually Project HOUND, a CIA experiment that was being carried out at a facility in Liberty, Indiana" he announced, not stopping, but heading straight for the main offices and in particular Major Barrymore's office.

Unfortunately Stapleton's clearance wasn't high enough, but with a little not-so-gentle- probing about the Major's character, Sherlock swiftly cracked Barrymore's password and there, in front of their eyes, was the answer. One of the Project Hound team was still working on the deliriant drug, working on it here, in a top secret military compound, and they had met him – Doctor Frankland.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile, with the intention of setting up a meeting with Frankland, but mid text he stopped as John's phone started ringing. John looked at his phone and frowned – he didn't recognise this number.

"Hello?" There was no response, just the faint sound of a woman crying.

"Who's this?" he tried again

"You've got to find Henry…" a woman's voice, but John was still puzzled. He looked at Sherlock who was frowning and deep in thought.

"He was remembering….then….."

John's eyes widened as he realised who the woman was.

"It's Henry's therapist – Louise Mortimer…."

"He's got a gun!" her voice cut in again. "He went for the gun and tried to…"

"What?"

"He's gone. You've got to stop him…"

She confirmed she was still at Henry's house, and that she was okay. John told her to stay there, and promised to get someone out to her.

"Henry?" Sherlock asked

"He attacked her"

"Gone?"

John nodded. Sherlock keyed in a speed dial number and waited for an answer.

"There's only one place he'll go" he said to John "back to where it all started." And into his phone he gave instructions to Lestrade to meet them at Dewer's Hollow, and to bring a gun.

oOo

John and Sherlock stood beside the hire car and watched as Lestrade led Henry away. He assured them he would make sure the young man got home safely, and he'd stay with him until morning. As the car pulled away, John looked down at his feet. He needed to speak to the man that he knew was, at this moment, watching him intently.

"Sherlock…"

"I'm sorry, John."

"What?"

"I know I shouldn't have done it, but I needed to test the theory. You had to be totally unaware, for the results to be accurate"

Looking up now into earnest silver-grey eyes, John gave a little half smile.

"Next time, Sherlock…" he sighed, shook his head, then chuckled. "Fuck it! Next time you'll do exactly the same, won't you, you git!"

Sherlock tried to look chastened, but failed miserably, and settled for holding the car door open for John to get in.

They drove in silence back to the Cross Keys, and slowly made their way to their respective rooms. Peeling off his clothes and pulling on his pyjama bottoms, Sherlock turned off the light, lay down on his bed and stared at the still closed connecting door, uncertain whether John would want anything to do with him after everything that had happened.

He was just debating closing his eyes and trying to sleep when he heard the slow scrape of a bolt being pulled.

He held his breath.

Then the second bolt slid open.

The sound of the key turning in the lock was Sherlock's cue to release the breath he'd been holding, and his heart rate increased with anticipation.

The door opened slowly, and John approached the narrow single bed.

His eyes never leaving the doctor's pyjama clad body; Sherlock reached up and switched the bedside lamp on. John's right hand was clenched, but not fisted Sherlock noted – he was holding something then, but what? He waited.

John sat on the edge of the bed, his free hand gently stroking up and down his lover's arm.

"You know I love you, don't you?" he looked into Sherlock's eyes, and read the answer there. He nodded. "And you know I'd do anything for you, don't you?"

"John?" Sherlock was wary, unsure of where this was going.

Slowly John leant down, until their lips met, and he kissed the other man fiercely, his free hand now tangled Sherlock's soft black curls. As Sherlock responded, he stopped and sat up, looking down again into his eyes.

"The other night, when I said that in many ways you've had more experience than me, you did understand what I was saying, didn't you?"

"You've never made love to a man before, John, I know that."

"Sherlock, I want you to do something for me….."

"Anything" there was no hesitation.

Again, John nodded, then he ran his hand down Sherlock's arm once more, picking up his hand stroking the palm with his thumb. His eyes never leaving those of his lover, he opened his hand and pressed its contents into the one he was still holding.

Sherlock broke eye contact, looking down to see what John had given him. His eyes widened as he saw it was a small bottle of lubricant, and a condom. He looked back up, knowing he was still being watched. John's voice was soft when he spoke once more.

"Teach me"

Placing the bottle and foil package on the bedside table, Sherlock moved over. There wasn't a lot of room in the bed, but he pulled the doctor in beside him, pulling him in for a deep, sensual kiss; a kiss that was all hot slick tongues and hands clutching and stroking, that was clothing being pushed away while lips stayed, clinging together, that was a first release of tension after danger, and it left them both breathless.

Moving to place himself between John's legs, he paused for a moment to open the condom in readiness, and to open the bottle of lube, pouring a small amount onto his fingers.

Theirs eyes met in silent communication.

'_Are you sure?'_

'_I trust you'_

Sherlock nodded, and his hand dropped to slowly massage around the sensitive outer area, gently working first one finger, then a second, sliding in and out, stretching, massaging, and all the while he listened to the smaller man's stuttering, ragged breathing, knowing that soon, very soon….he pushed in again and heard it, the sound he'd been waiting for, the hitch in the breathing. With a smile Sherlock leaned in for another kiss, holding the doctor down, preventing his hips from thrusting upwards.

"Shh, relax," he whispered softly into John's ear, "I don't want you to rush this.."

"Oh God….Sherlock….please…" the words came out as a breathy moan that travelled straight from Sherlock's ear to his groin.

Easing himself up onto his knees, Sherlock picked up the condom with his free hand and swiftly sheathed himself. He looked down to see John staring up at him, his eyes heavy with desire, his tongue flicking out to moisten his lips. Drawing a shuddering breath, he withdrew his fingers, and grasping and lifting John's hips he guided himself in, moving slowly, gently rocking back and forth, feeling the doctors body adapt and adjust to accept him, envelop him, suddenly pulling him in and tightening around him.

John's arms snaked up and wrapped themselves around the shining slender body above him. Pulling him down as he surged upwards to meet each steady thrust, and breath to breath, heart to heart, skin to skin they came together, each crying out softly, crying out the other's name as a declaration of love, of trust.

As hearts returned to normal rhythm, and breathing regulated and deepened, they slept, a warm tangle of arms, and legs, and bodies.

oOo

Sherlock approached the table where John sat, tucking into a hearty breakfast. Putting the coffee down in front of John, he sat, leaning back against the table and sipped his own drink.

John looked at the drink, then over at the man sitting next to him. Realisation and understanding flooded through him.

"The sugar."

"Hmmm?"

"You thought it was in the sugar – that's why you were so angry in the lab yesterday, you thought it was in the sugar that you had put in my coffee, you got the reaction you wanted," he glared half- heartedly at Sherlock, who maintained a bland expression, "but you couldn't find the drug."

"You must have encountered it without realising, either during our earlier trip to the hollow, or in Baskerville itself. After all, did you see how old all that pipework was, probably leaky…."

"Yeah, yeah; remind me again why I let you do these things to me?"

With a grin, Sherlock waggled his eyebrows at him.

"Because you love me?"


	7. Never Tear Us Apart

**This last chapter carries a severe angst warning. Again I have used bits of the S2E3 dialogue, twisted it to fit the story.****  
Thanks to Mapleleafcameo, Ennui Enigma, hjohn302, patemalah21, hummingbird1759, Dark Moons and Whispered Words, Banbi-V, Aimee's Stori****es, Innenlebenaussenwelt, DuShuZhi, ruvy91, Daffidill, TheGameMrsHudsonIsAfoot, JR Granger and if I've missed anyone please forgive me.****  
Disclaimer: Same as ever****  
Last note: Text in **_**bold italics**_** shows the thoughts of the two men.**

John lay in bed, one hand tucked under his head, staring up, watching the movement of cloud over the moon, projected through the open curtains onto the ceiling. His other arm was draped across the shoulders of the man curled around him, sleeping, his head resting on John's chest.

There was something – John was not quite sure what it was – but it was nagging at his brain, at his heart, and for a while he had managed to convince himself that it was a just a memory, a throwback to the laboratory at Baskerville, and to the noxious gasses being leaked to such devastating effect into Dewar's Hollow. Now though, he was less certain, his mind raced. It was the fear again, the fear he had felt trapped in that cage; the fear he hadn't admitted to when the hound appeared at the top of the hollow; the fear….

"John, whatever it is, try to forget about it and get some sleep."

The blond doctor didn't respond, he just tightened his arm about his lover's shoulders, his other hand moving down to tangle itself into the soft dark curls that tickled against his skin. Closing his eyes he attempted to deepen his breathing, to ease the tension that was keeping him awake. Under his hand, the curly head moved.

"What's wrong?"

John opened his eyes and looked down. Soft grey eyes were staring back at him, concern clear in their expression.

"It's nothing, Sherlock, go back to sleep"

"It's obviously not nothing, John, because when you started thinking about what ever this is that has upset you, your heart rate increased significantly enough to wake me up."

"Really?" a smile lifted John's features momentarily.

"Like a drum!" Sherlock was pleased to see the smile, but knew there was something worrying the man lying wrapped in his arms. He looked at him and waited.

John's arm tightened again, and there was a kind of desperation in the movement that was starting to cause the consulting detective a great deal of concern.

Dropping his head slightly, he pressed a kiss against the warm skin beneath him, then followed it with a series of kisses that worked up from chest to neck, via the scarred shoulder, until he hovered over John, looking down into those deep, deep blue eyes. He was shocked to see tears glistening, making those lovely eyes unnaturally bright.

"John?"

A shaking hand raised and cupped his face, stroking his cheek, the tear-bright blue eyes holding his moonlit grey ones.

"Sherlock, I…I'm afraid."

Sherlock wasn't sure what he had been expecting John to say, but it certainly wasn't that! His mouth opened several times, but closed again, not find the right words to reassure.

A small sigh ghosted warm breath across his cheek, as John turned his head to look away.

"I know it's stupid…."

"No" Sherlock was used to trusting John's feelings, his instincts. "John, whatever it is that's bothering you, it's unlikely to be stupid." He hooked two fingers under John's chin and pulled his head back round, looking him in the eye again. "Care to share?"

Instead of speaking, the doctor reached up and drew Sherlock down for a kiss, and the detective felt that echo of desperation once more, before the kiss deepened, and coherent thought faded into the distance.

oOo

Sherlock surreptitiously watched as John pottered around the kitchen, making breakfast. In the aftermath of frantic lovemaking John had finally slept, a fitful and dream-filled sleep, from which he had woken several hours later, bleary eyed and unrefreshed.

His eyes followed John as he carried the two mugs of tea in one hand, two plates of toast in the other, depositing the victuals on the coffee table and sitting tiredly beside him.

"Eat, Sherlock"

"I'll eat," Sherlock countered, "if you'll tell me what's troubling you."

John turned tired eyes on the man beside him, a slight tremor in the hand that held his mug of tea, and drawing a deep breath he shook his head.

Sherlock frowned, not used to such reticence.

"Look" John sighed, dropping his gaze to his lap "just give me a minute, will you? Please? Eat your breakfast"

For a long few moments, the only sound in the flat was the crunch of toast being eaten, of tea being sipped.

"I can't shift the feeling that this is all too good to be true!" John blurted out suddenly, looking helplessly at Sherlock. "Don't ask me why," he added, forestalling the question he saw in the other's eyes. "All I know is that no-one's luck can hold out this long…"

"It's not luck, John."

"Good fortune then – whatever you choose to call it, I can't help but feel that sooner or later something will go horribly wrong, and this" he gestured towards the pile of case files on the table, and his laptop open and displaying his blog "all this will be lost."

Sherlock reached out a hand and gently stroked through John's shower-damp hair.

"You're tired, John, and blowing things all out of proportion. Maybe you should go back to bed, get a few hours' sleep" he smiled softly and rose to his feet, pulling John up with him and turning him towards their bedroom. Placing his hands on the smaller man's shoulders he guided him down the hallway and through the bedroom door. Once inside, he swiftly helped remove clothing (trying not to give into the urge the join the other man under the duvet –no, that wouldn't be restful for him, not restful at all!) and tenderly covered him up.

"What will you do?" sleep coloured John's voice, making him sound wistful and almost childlike.

"I have some experiments to complete."

"Don't blow up the flat."

Smiling, Sherlock leaned down a dropped a gentle kiss on John's forehead. At the door he turned back to see John already asleep, curled up on his side and clutching Sherlock's pillow, his nose buried in it, inhaling his lover's scent as he slept.

oOo

"Boffin! Boffin Sherlock Holmes" his voice heavily laced with disgust, Sherlock threw the copy of the Daily Star onto the coffee table.

"Everyone gets one"

"One what?"

John glanced up at him.

"A nickname; you know, Su-Bo, Nasty Nick. Shouldn't worry, I'll probably get one soon."

"Page five, column six, first line"

Turning to the relevant page, John scanned down the lines until

"_Bachelor_ John Watson? Bachelor? What the hell…..?"

"Would you rather they referred to you as my lover?" As yet no-one except Mycroft was aware of the change in their relationship, despite the insinuations made on a daily basis at the Yard, and they had tried to ensure it stayed that way.

John stood up, his face serious as he walked over to the fireplace and looked into Sherlock's eyes.

"If it would make them leave you alone, then they could call me what they liked, but they won't will they? Won't leave you alone." He manoeuvred the consulting detective round into his chair, and knelt between his legs, his forearms resting on the other man's thighs. "You're close to becoming a celebrity now, you're this far" he held up his thumb and forefinger, showing a gap between the two of less than an inch "from famous, and if we aren't careful, they'll turn on you."

"Who will?" Sherlock captured John's hand and held it, rubbing his thumb across the back of it, absently noting how well the other man cared for his hands – the tools of his trade – despite the calluses on his fingers.

"The press, Sherlock. They always turn, and they'll turn on _you_."

"It really bothers you"

"What?"

"What people say"

"Yes"

"About me? I don't understand – why would it upset _you_?"

John stared at him, trying to read his face. Was he joking? If he was it was in poor taste. But no, he really was oblivious.

"I'm upset because I love you, you thick git! When they attack you, they attack me – hurt you, and they get two for the price of one – do you really not know that?"

"I know that you love me, John"

"Then please, if not for your own sake then for me, just…just stay out of the spotlight for a bit, keep a low profile and let it die down. Find yourself a little case this week, stay out of the news."

oOo

John thought back to that conversation as he sat in the gallery of the Old Bailey, watching Sherlock do the exact opposite of everything he had advised – don't try to be clever, keep it simple and brief – no, he couldn't do that! And instead of giving 'smart-arse' a wide berth he jumped in there, all sparkling intelligence and no common sense. He watched in dismay as the consulting detective was held to be in contempt of court, and taken down to the cells.

When the session was adjourned for the day, Sherlock was allowed out of the cells, with a stern warning not to return to the courts while this case was being heard. As he signed for his personal belongings John couldn't hold back – he was quietly furious.

"I said 'Don't get clever' and what do you do? Wind up in the cells for contempt! You just couldn't leave it alone, could you?"

"I can't just turn it on and off…"

"You can shut up occasionally!"

"Yes" Sherlock smirked as together they walked out of the building "but I don't think they'd appreciate us…"

"Sherlock!"

Hailing a cab, Sherlock opened the door and stepped back to allow John to get in first – only the most observant of people would have noticed the hand that brushed John's bum as he climbed in.

"Now," he continued as if nothing had happened "you were there from start to finish, tell me." And he sat back and received what was almost a verbatim report of the proceedings, so accurate that by the time they reached the flat he knew everything that had happened during the first day of the trial.

As John set about making tea, Sherlock sat, silently considering the case so far. He ignored the outstretched hand and mug of hot, strong tea; he didn't respond to John's words as if he hadn't heard them, and eventually the older man gave up trying to communicate, and retreated into his own world of worry.

That world of worry grew larger the next day as, to the dismay of all concerned – and to the justified surprise of the Defence Barrister in particular – James Moriarty was found not guilty. Hurrying from the Court, John phoned Sherlock.

"Not Guilty! They found him Not Guilty – he orchestrates a break in at the Tower of London, another at the Bank of England, and arranges for all the locks in Pentonville Prison to open at the same time, offers no defence, and Moriarty walks free!"

There was no response from the man at the other end of the phone, but as he lowered his hand he could still hear John's voice warning him, telling him that Moriarty would be coming after him….and he cut the call.

And Moriarty came. He arrived shortly after the call, walking into the flat as if he owned it, sitting in Sherlock's chair and drinking tea as if this were a civilised social visit. He sat carving at an apple with a penknife and boasting about how he could open any door in the world with just a few lines of computer code, on and on he rattled until finally he admitted it, the real reason for all of his clever antics.

"You don't want money, or power" Sherlock observed "so what _is_ it all for?"

"I want to solve the problem. Our problem; the final problem" Moriarty almost whispered, his voice was so soft. "It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock; the fall….but don't be scared, falling's just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination."

"I never liked riddles" Sherlock replied, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket.

Moriarty stood too, and leaving the apple with the penknife still stuck in it on the arm of the chair, stared up into Sherlock's eyes.

"Learn to," he hissed "because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I…Owe…You"

When he was gone, Sherlock picked up the apple, turning it slowly around in his hand. Moriarty had carved three letters into the piece of fruit…I O U.

oOo

Lying face down in the middle of their bed, and clad in nothing but a pair of lightweight jersey pyjama bottoms, John let himself relax into the rhythmic motions of Sherlock's hands massaging his shoulders, easing out the knots in the muscles, gently working around the scar of the entry wound and moving outwards to work on his deltoids, and down slightly to run his hands over the well-defined triceps before moving back up and inwards to the shoulders once more.

Straddling John's hips, Sherlock let his mind wander slightly as he worked at the tight, tension filled muscles. He may never have had any medical training, but he knew he could name every muscle he worked on – deltoid, trapezius, latissimus dorsi – name it, and feel it react to his touch. He smiled and started to move downwards. A sigh escaped from the man beneath his hands as he swept his fingers firmly down his sides, moving inwards and upwards before repeating the movement.

"Good?"

"Mmmmm"

He shifted over, so that he was kneeling beside John, his oiled hands still sweeping across muscles that were rapidly relaxing at his touch. On the next downward sweep he allowed his fingers to slide under the waistband of John's pyjamas, to sweep across the smooth skin as his mind registered – gluteus maximus – and instantly his partners sigh became a growl. Sherlock felt his body react to the sound, instantly and almost painfully, but he continued with his slow strokes.

"I hope you know what you're doing" John's voice was ragged with desire

Sherlock stretched himself out, his hand still tracing circular movements that took his fingers in and out of that waistband, his lips were almost touching John's ear.

"Oh yes" the voice was velvet soft, warm breath coating sensitive skin.

In one swift, fluid motion John flipped himself over, pulling Sherlock down on top of him and wrapping his arms around him, his hands splaying across the pale, well-muscled back.

Lips met, tongues joined in a sensual dance, hands and arms and legs tangled together. It seemed they would devour each other with nips and licks and biting kisses. What little clothing they had been wearing was quickly discarded, and their movements slowed, became more focused. Finally John entered Sherlock with slow, rocking thrusts, increasing in pressure, in intensity, until their sweat-slicked bodies were pressed so close together it was hard to tell where one man ended and the other began.

Still glowing in the aftermath of enjoyed consensual pleasure, John pulled his trousers back on, and adding a dressing gown wandered down to the kitchen to grab a glass of water and some take-away menus. Sliding up behind him Sherlock slipped his arms around his waist, and stood with his chin resting on the other man's head.

"Angelo's? We could walk there, have a meal…"

"No, let's not. I don't want to share you with anyone tonight"

Sherlock caught the echo of something in John's voice, but when the other man turned round and gave him the sweetest smile, he lost the thread – whatever it was, it could wait.

oOo

Mycroft watched as John walked out of the Diogenes Club, hoping that the ex-army doctor would manage to convince his flatmate that he really should take the threat of these four professional killers seriously. He turned and looked out of the window, following the progress of the blond haired man from front steps to car, and watched him being driven away. Returning to his chair he picked up one of the folders and stared unseeing at the photograph inside.

Meanwhile, as he climbed the stairs to the flat, John was trying to figure out what was so interesting about Baker Street, that suddenly they were surrounded by paid killers. He didn't have the chance to talk it over with Sherlock, however, because as he entered the living room he realised they had company.

"Kidnapping" Sherlock informed him, in answer to his question. He sat down in front of his laptop and started typing.

"Rufus Bruhl, ambassador to the US" Lestrade added.

"He's in Washington, isn't he?"

"Not him, John, his children. Max and Claudette, aged seven and nine"

John looked at the photograph Sally Donovan held out towards him.

"The kids have vanished" she said "from their posh boarding school in Surrey"

"And the Ambassador's asked for you two personally" Lestrade added, as Sherlock leapt to his feet and grabbing his coat headed out of the door.

At the school, despite being asked to handle her sensitively, Sherlock launched into an accusation of incompetence, then demanded immediate answers – it may have been unethical, but it worked, and they had a picture of the children's last night at the school.

They checked the girl's room first, but there was nothing helpful there. The boy's room however was much more promising. He was an avid reader of spy books, from which Sherlock deduced that he would have been savvy enough to leave them clues. The clues came in the form of a message written in linseed oil, and more oil on the floor through which the boy and his kidnapper had tracked, leaving footprints that glowed under Anderson's ultraviolet light. When the trail stopped suddenly, all the police forensics officers returned to the boy's room, but Sherlock collected a scraping of one of the kidnapper's linseed oil footprints.

Taking his findings to St Bart's, Sherlock bullied Molly into helping him, and as she stood beside him, her eyes flicked between him and John.

"You're like my Dad," she said finally, "He's dead"

Raising an eyebrow Sherlock didn't look away from the microscope.

"Molly please, don't feel the need to make conversation, it's not your area"

His tone, though soft, was loaded with sarcasm, and she cringed but bravely went on

"When he was dying, he was always cheerful. He was lovely. Except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once, he looked sad."

"Molly" There was a hint of warning in the voice.

"You look sad" her eyes flicked once more towards John, sitting on the far side of the room reading through some papers. "When you think he can't see you."

Sherlock looked up momentarily, and followed her gaze, then looked back at the young woman standing beside him.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly.

He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could make a sound she interrupted him.

"And don't just say that you are, 'cause I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you"

"You can see me"

"I don't count!" With a sad smile Molly walked away, past John and out of the room.

John, still unaware of the conversation, carried one of the police crime scene photos over to the bench where Sherlock was working.

"Sherlock, you see this envelope? The seal on it?"

"What? Oh, yes, the one that had a copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales in it?"

"There's another one. I found it on our doorstep today"

The consulting detective looked closely at the envelope, its seal and its contents. Breadcrumbs.

"Breadcrumbs, fairy tales," his eyes widened.

"Clues? What sort of kidnapper leaves clues?"

"Moriarty" Sherlock turned his head to look at the older man. "The final problem" he whispered. It had been two months since that meeting but he remembered not only the problem but the promise – Moriarty promised him a fall, and now he realised what that echo was he'd felt before, it was fear.

oOo

Donovan and Anderson had stood opposite Lestrade, eloquent in their condemnation of Sherlock Holmes. In the hopes of dealing with this quietly, he made the journey to 221B, but with his usual arrogance the young man refused to come along to the Yard to discuss it.

Frustrated, he retreated to his car, looking back up at the window, his eyes meeting John's as he climbed in next to Donovan.

"They'll be deciding" Sherlock commented as he heard the car start up

"Deciding?"

"Whether or not to come back with a warrant and arrest me"

"You should've gone with him" John looked unhappily down at his lover "People'll think…"

"I don't care what people think"

"You'd care, my love, if they thought you were stupid, or wrong"

"That would just make them stupid or wrong"

John could feel the anger building up within him.

"Sherlock, I don't want the world believing…." He stopped as Sherlock's eyes met his.

"That I am what?"

John swallowed

"A fraud"

"You're worried. You're worried they're right about me."

"No"

"That's why you're so upset. You can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right." He sat back in his chair and folded his arms, continuing softly "You're afraid that you've been taken in as well"

Looking out of the window once more, John answered equally softly "No I'm not"

"Moriarty's playing with your mind too" Sherlock leaned forward and slammed his hand on the table angrily "Can't you see what's going on?"

"No, Sherlock I know you – I know you're for real" he walked across and stood looking down into stormy grey eyes. Suddenly he smiled. "No one could fake being such an annoying dick _all_ the time!"

oOo

The more he sat there reading through Kitty Riley's file, her notes on Richard Brook, the more pieces of the puzzles fell into place, and the angrier he became. He heard the door open, footsteps across the room, the barely contained gasp of surprise as the newcomer realised he was sitting there.

"There are things in Miss Riley's research that only someone close to Sherlock could have told her"

"John…."

"So, Mycroft, how does it work? Your relationship with Moriarty; exchanging confidences over coffee? Because, if you weren't aware there are only two people in your brother's life, and she didn't get this from me!"

"We interrogated him for weeks, he wouldn't crack"

"And?"

"I could get him to talk, just a little, but…"

"In exchange for Sherlock's life story."

Mycroft nodded unhappily.

"Moriarty wanted Sherlock dead, right? You knew that? And you have given him the perfect ammunition."

"John…I'm sorry"

"Oh, please…." John was furious. He got to his feet and headed for the door.

There was an edge of uncertainty that didn't sit well in Mycroft's voice as he looked at John's retreating back.

"Tell him, would you?"

John just carried on walking, not even bothering to close the door after him. As he left the building his phone chirped and he looked at the text. A small smile graced his tired features – he should have known Sherlock would have headed for his home-from-home….St Bart's.

oOo

It had been a long night, John had finally dozed off, his head on his folded arms, hunched over the bench. Sherlock watched him, his mind racing, painfully aware that the next few hours would require every ounce of his brain power and courage, and equally aware that if the worse happens, John may never forgive him his betrayal of trust.

The shrill ringing of a phone woke the sleeping doctor and he wearily picked it up. Suddenly he was sitting bolt upright, wide awake.

"What? What happened? Is she okay?" he listened to the voice on the phone, then "Oh my God! Right, yes, I'm coming"

Sherlock looked at him.

"What is it?"

"Paramedics. Mrs, Hudson, she's been shot!"

"What? How?"

"Probably one of those killers you managed to attract….Jesus. Jesus, she dying, Sherlock, let's go"

"You go….I'm busy"

"Busy?" John stopped mid-stride, turning back to stare in disbelief at the other man.

"Thinking, I need to think"

"Sherlock! You half killed a man once for laying a finger on her…"

"She's our landlady" Sherlock shrugged almost nonchalantly

"She's dying…" John couldn't control the anger boiling up inside him. "You…you machine! Sod this! You stay here if want, on your own…"

"Alone is what I have," Sherlock replied, distantly "Alone protects me"

"No, Sherlock, friends protect people."

oOo

On the rooftop of St Bart's, Sherlock looked down at the dead body of Jim Moriarty. This wasn't what he had planned, this wasn't how it was supposed to be. Swallowing hard, he backed away, and slowly, his feet reluctant to obey his brain, he climbed up onto the ledge and looked down.

To his horror he saw John getting out of a cab – no! This shouldn't have happened, it was all going wrong! John should have been safe away from here. Reaching into his pocket he hit speed-dial on his mobile, watching as John paused to remove his phone from his pocket. He needed to think quickly – the worst thing John could do now is come up here, Sherlock feared that his lover would do something stupid. On the other hand, he knew it would all but kill John to watch what he was planning to do next…

"Hello?"

"John"

"Hi Sherlock, you okay?"

"Turn around and walk back the way you came"

"No, I'm coming in"

"Just do as I ask, please!"

'_**Please John…'**_

"Where?"

"Stop there"

"Sherlock"

"Okay look up, I'm on the rooftop."

"Oh God!"

"I….I….I can't come down so, we'll…we'll just have to do it like this"

'_**What the...Sherlock! No...no, no, no!'**_

"What's going on?"

"An apology" Sherlock paused "It's all true."

"What?"

"Everything they said about me – I invented Moriarty"

"Why are you saying this?"

"I'm a fake!"

"Sherlock….."

'_**Sherlock I know you're no fake'**_

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly – in fact tell anyone who will listen to you" – pause – "that I created Moriarty for my own purposes!"

'_**John, please…understand…'**_

"Okay, shut up Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met, the first time we met you knew all about my sister right?"

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could!"

Sherlock gave a little choked laugh – paused, then sniffed. Tears stained his pale cheeks, dried there by the wind that danced around the rooftops, oblivious to the drama unfolding in its playground.

"I researched you – before we met I discovered everything I could to impress you. It's a trick, just a magic trick"

"No. Alright stop it now!"

'_**That's it! I'm coming up there – you can't do this, Sherlock…You can't jump. Oh God please let me get up to you in time….'**_

"No stay exactly where you are – don't move"

"Alright"

Standing on the roof, Sherlock took several rapid deep breaths

"Keep your eyes fixed on me…please will you do this for me?"

"Do what?"

'_**Sherlock, please tell me you're not going to…'**_

"This phone call it's er, it's my note. 'S what people do don't they, leave a note?"

'_**Stop this Sherlock, let me help you…'**_

"Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye John"

'_**I love you, John. Please forgive me'**_

'_**Not goodbye, Sherlock. I love you. Jesus Christ not goodbye!' **_

"No….don't….."

Sherlock threw down his phone, spread his arms and, ever graceful, fell forwards.

"Sherlock!...Sherlock"

oOo

He stood back from the gravestone, his eyes blurred with tears, his voice choked as he spoke to the dead man lying in the cold earth at his feet.

"I was so alone…and I owe you so much.."

'_**And I never really told you how much I love you…'**_

When, finally, he finished speaking, he stood to attention, nodding a brief salute before turning and walking away, ramrod stiff and head held high. He would _not_ break down here, now. And every movement was watched, catalogued as best the blurred vision of those soft grey eyes could manage, as the tall man in the Belstaff followed his progress out of the churchyard, watching until he was out of sight. _**'Be safe, **__**John, be safe **__**my love'**_


End file.
